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“Abandoned 520 

About Bells (I. & II.) ...... 94, 226 

Advanced Art.358 

After the Herring (I. & IT.) ..... 405, 454 

Alnwick Castle ........ 140, 195 

“Alone” (A Sonnet).282 

Ambras Collection, The ....... 478 

American A.R.A., An : George H. Boughton . . . 397 

American Humorist in Paint, An : William H. Beard, 


Ancient Picture Gallery, An.371 

Angelica Kauffman, The Love Affairs of . .33 

Antique Spoons ......... 160 

Art in the Garden.464 

Art of Savages, The (I. & II.) . . . . 246, 303 

Artists’ Homes :— 

Mr. Alma-Tadema’s, at North Gate, Regent’s 


Artist’s Idea of Sketching, An.26 

Aston Rowant, The Pictures at.309 

Beard, W. H., N.A.14 

Beauty of the Fields, The.101 

Belgian Art.151 

Bells. 94, 226 

Benvenuto Cellini.200 

Bonheur, Rosa.45 

Book Decoration, Historical and Artistic . . . 146 

Boughton, George H., A.R.A.397 

Brighton Treasure-House, A: The Hill Collection 

(I., II., & III.).1,80,116 

Brown, J. G., N.A.265 

Burgess, John Bagnold, A.R.A. . . . . .133 

“ Burgomaster, The ”.88 

Byways of Book Illustration: — 

Bagster’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” .... 169 

Jacob Cats.384 

“ Canossa, 1077 ”.123 

Canterbury Cathedral (I. & II.) .... 360, 416 


Cathedral of Orvieto, The.514 

Ceramists, Some Original.443 

Christmas Cards, An Exhibition of .... 30 

Classical Fallacy, The Great.282 

Coal-Scuttle from an Artistic Point of View, The . 182 

Colour in Dress.158 

Costa Exhibition, The ....... 396 

Current Art. 342, 388, 472 

Decoration of a Home, The.259 

Decoration of a Yacht.103 

“ Dien Wohl, Mein Liebchen ” ..... 334 

Door-Knockers ......... 23 

Durer, The Drawings of Albert.345 

Earliest Cathedral Windows, The.19 

English Claude, The : Richard Wilson .... 353 

“ Equilibrium 43 

Exhibitions, The.351 

“Fair Patrician, A”..383 

“ Fisher-Folks’ Harvest, The ”.36 

Fitness and Fashion ........ 336 

Fluggen, Joseph.188 

Ford Castle.108 

Francois I., Portraits of . . . . . . . 366 

Gargoyle in Medihsval Architecture, The . . . 462 
Glasgow Institute, The ....... 258 

Glass Painting in the Fourteenth Century . . . 289 

“ Grandfather’s Blessing, The ”.99 

Great Classical Fallacy, The ...... 282 

Greek Myths in Greek Art: The Judgment of Paris. 503 
“ Gretchen ” . . . . . . ■ • "■ 308 

Hamilton Palace Sales, The.440 

Harbingers of the Renaissance, The .... 495 
Homage to the Arts ........ 85 

Home, The Decoration of a.259 

How to Hang Pictures.58 

“In the Studio”.413 

Instantaneous Photography ...... 70 

Iron-Work, Decorative ....... 61 




Japanese and Chinese Bronzes.401 

Japanese Art, A Note on . . . . . .171 

Johnson, Eastman, N.A.. 4S5 

“ Jolly Companions ”. . . . . . . . 527 

JuDOMENT OF PARIS, THE ....... 503 

Kabyle Pottery.491 

Keramics in Japan.522 

“ Laboremus460 

Landscape, New Facts in.470 


Legros, Professor A.327 

Love Affairs of Angelica Kauffman, The . . .33 

Man of Culture (Cinque Cento), A . . . . . 270 

Manchester Mural Paintings . . . . . .114 

Memories of the Year’s Art.132 

Modern Dress, The Artistic Aspect of . . . . 242 

Moran, Thomas ....... . . 89 

“ Mountain Sprite, Tiie ”.343 


Needlework, The Royal School of Art . . . 219 

Normanton Hogarth, The. ...... 441 

North’s Paintings at Kew, Miss Marianne . . . 430 

Note on Japanese Art, A.174 

Nottingham Castle Museum.65 

Nuremberg Art ......... 1G3 

Old Crome .......... 221 

Open-Air Painter, An: Richard Ansdell, R.A. . . 450 

“Orphans of Katwijk, The”.483 

Orvieto, The Cathedral of ..... S14 

Painter of the Streets, A : J. G. Brown, N.A. . . 265 

Photography, Instantaneous ...... 70 

Pictures, How r to Hang ....... 58 

Pictures of the Sea . . . . . . . .162 

Pictures of the Season ....... 251 

Pioneer of the Palette, A: Thomas Moran 
“Prodigal Son, The” .... 

Queen Anne Plate ..... 

“Rabelais” ..... 

Raphael, A New Life of . 

Renaissance, The Harbingers of the 
Representative American, A : Eastman Johnson, N.A. 
“Rose-Water Raphael, A” 

Round About the Farm 
Royal Courts of Justice, The 
Royal Scottish Academy, The 
Salon of 1882, The . 

School of Art Needleavork, The Royal 
“Shepherdess and Her Flock, The” 

“Spanish Courtyard, A” . 

Story of a Failure, The . 

Studio-Life in Paris . 


Thames and its Poetry, The 
Titian, The Venice, of 
Towers of Sir Christopher Wren, The 
Two Painters, The (An Art Fable) 

Unfulfilled Renown . 

Van Dyck . 

Venice of Titian, The 
Waning of the Year, The 
Watts Exhibition, The 
Wilson, Richard 

Wood Engraving, A Treatise on 
Wren, The Towers of Sir Christoi 
Wren and St. Paul’s 
Yacht, The Decoration of a 
Year’s Awakening, The . 





























A Brighton Treasure-House: The Hill Collection (I.) 


Portrait of Captain Hill.2 

Toilers of the Sea.5 

The Waning of the Year:— 

The Road through the Park, Betchworth.8 

Moated Farm, Newdegate.9 

The Bridge in the Park, Betchworth.10 

A Quiet Fisher in Holmwood Park.11 

St. Ambrose Brow, Holmwood.12 

Pheasant Shooting.13 

An American Humorist in Paint:— 

W. H. Beard, Portrait of.15 

The Wreckers.10 

Making Game of the Hunter.17 

The Earliest Cathedral Windows 

Map in Stained Glass.19 

Portion of a Diaper.20 

Example of Grisaille.20 

A Bishop.21 


Old-Fashioned Strength.24 

Old-Fashioned Grace.24 

A Modern Example.25 

An Artist’s Idea of Sketching 

Maccarese, near the Mouth of the Tiber.20 

London from Greenwich Park.27 

Sketch of a Brighton Fishing-Boat.28 

Rome from Monte Mario.29 

The Love Affairs of Angelica Kauffman 

Angelica Kauffman, Portrait of.33 

The Royal Courts of Justice 

The Clock Tower.37 

Column on Bar-Room Balcony.37 

Witnesses’ Corridor.39 

Balcony Overlooking the Strand.39 

Clock Tower from Bell Yard.40 

The Bar-Room.41 

Rosa Bonheur 

Rosa Bonheur, Portrait of.47 

A Souvenir of Fontainebleau.45 

Group from “ The Horse Fair”.48 

Ploughing in the Nivernais.49 

The Venice of Titian ■ 

The Canal of San Trovaso.51 

A Corner of the Ducal Palace.52 

View from the Riva degli Schiavoni.53 

Interior of the Church of the Frari.56 

Tintoretto’s House.57 

Decorative Iron-Work : — 

German Casket.61 

German Cupboard-Front.62 

French Girandole.63 

German Coffer.94 

Italian Lock.65 

Instantaneous Photography 

Henley Regatta.70 


Shipping and Smoke.71 

At Pasture.72 

A Cricket Match.73 

Round about the Farm : — 


The Stream that Turns the Mill.75 

In Harvest Heat.. . • • .76 

“ When the Kye Come Hame . . . . - • .77 

Gleaning. 79 


A Brighton Treasure-House : The Hill Collection (II.) 

A Flood in the Fens.80 

A Midsummer Day in the Forest.82 

Entrance to the Cave of Mammon.83 

Three Weeks After.84 

Homage to the Arts 

Anne of Cleves. 86 

The Burgomaster. (By H. Kotschenreiter).88 

A Pioneer of the Palette 

Thomas Moran, Portrait of.89 

The Haunt of the Kenabeek.93 

A Chat about Bells (I.) 

St. Ninian’s Bell.94 

The Belfry of Ghent.91 

Durham Belfry.95 

Strasburg Belfry.96 

The Bell of Moscow. .... 97 

The Belfry of Bruges.98 

The Decoration of a Yacht 

A Porthole.103 

Our Deck-House.104 

Our Saloon.105 

A Cozy Corner.106 

My Writing-Table.107 

Ford Castle 

The Crypt.108 

The Cheviots, from Ford.109 

Secret Staircase to the King’s Bedchamber . . .110 

Ford Tower.Ill 

Flodden, from the King’s Bedchamber.112 

The Morning-Room.112 

The Boudoir.113 

In the Drawing-Room.113 

A Brighton Treasure-House: The Hill Collection (in.) 

The End of the Journey.116 

Going Out for the Night.119 

“ The Vagabond I. The Drawing-Room .... 120 

“ The Vagabond II. The Street.120 


Canossa, 1077- (By J. A. Cluysenaar).124 


The Little Yard—The Road to Church.125 

The Old Stables, Breakspear’s Farm.126 

Poachers at Work—Early Morning.127 

Waterlands Farm.128 

The Old Chimney-Corner.• .131 

John Bagnold Burgess, A.R.A. 

John Bagnold Burgess, Portrait of 
Guarding the Hostages . 

Alnwick Castle (I.) 

March Snow on the Cheviots 
The Draw-Well and Norman Gateway 
The Pottergate . 

The Library 
The Keep . 

The Barbican . 

The Percy Bedstead 
The Eastern Angle of the Barbican 
Book Decoration: Historical and Artistic: 
Hooper’s “ Sophistry,” 1547 . 

Grolier Pattern, Sixteenth Century 
Dutch, Seventeenth Century. 

The Dudley “ Aristotle,” Sixteenth Ce 
Italian, Sixteenth Century . 

Flemish, Seventeenth Century 



















Belgian Art 

Sunday Morning in Winter 
The Death-Bed of St. Cecilia 
Unfulfilled Renown :— 

The “ Piping Boy ” . 

The “Boy with a Kite” . 

Antique Spoons 

Roman Spoon .... 

Apostle Spoon .... 

Bronze Spoon ... 

Seal-Top and Maiden Spoons 
Nuremburg Art:— 

Albert Diirer at Fourteen 
House of the Petersens . 

The Beautiful Fountain . 

House of the Nassaus 
On the Pegnitz .... 

The Shrine of St. Sebald 

The Castle. 

The City Wall .... 

The Hangman's Passage 
The Roofs of Nuremburg 
Byways of Book Illustration : Bagster 

Twenty Illustrations .... 

The Watts Exhibition :— 

To all Churches : a Symbolical Design 
Mrs. Frederick Myers .... 

Diana and Endymion .... 

Artists' Homes: Mr. Alma-Tadema’s at North Gate, Regent’s 

The Fountain . 

The Drawing-Room 
Mr. Alma-Tadema’s Studio 
The Panel Room 
Mrs. Alma-Tadema’s Studio 
The Gold Room 
Joseph Fliiggen 

Joseph Fliiggen, Portrait of 
His First Fox . 































The Widow’s Daughter.192 

Alnwick Castle (II.) 

The Castle Walls. 195 

East Angle of the Drawing-Room.196 

Earl Hugh’s Tower. 197 

The Porter’s Lodge, Hulne Priory. 199 

Font Lectern.200 

Gravestone, St. Michael and All Angels.200 

Benvenuto Cellini :— 

Figure from the Base of the “Perseus ”.204 

Bust of Cosimo de’ Medici.205 

The Cellini Salt-Cellar.206 

The Towers of Sir Christopher Wren :— 

The Principal Works of Wren.207 

The Monument, Fish Street Hill.208 

St. Andrew’s, Holborn.209 

St. Bride's, Fleet Street.209 

St. James’s, Garlick Hill.210 

St. Magnus’, London Bridge ........ 211 

St Mary-le-Bow .... 212 

A New Life of Raphael :— 

Study for the “ St. George and the Dragon ” .... 214 

Study for the “ St. George and the Dragon ” .... 215 

Cardinal Bibbiena .216 

Holy Family called “ Di Casa Canigiani ”.217 

Study for the Holy Family, “ Di Casa Canigiani ” . . 218 

Old Crome 


Old Jetty, Yarmouth.224 

The “ Grove Scene ”.225 

A Chat about Bells (II.) 

Third Quarter.226 

“Ring out, Wild Bells”.227 

Cathedral Tower, Mechlin.228 

Antwerp Tower.229 

The Old Church.230 

The Year's Awakening:— 


Gathering Wild Flowers.232 

Through the Birchwoods.233 


Before the Storm.236 

“ A Treatise on Wood-Engraving” 

Una and the Lion.237 

Milton Dictating “ Paradise Lost ”.237 

The Fox and the Goat. (By S. Le Clercl.238 


“ A Treatise on Wood Engraving” ( continued) 

The Fox and the Goat. (By W. Kirkall).238 

„ „ (By Bewick).239 

Industry and Sloth.240 

Pwll Caradoc ..210 

The Fall of Man.241 

The Deluge.241 

The Artistic Aspect of Modern Dress :— 

Effigy of Blanche de la Tour.243 

An Antwerp Lady.243 

A Woman of the Abruzzi.244 

A Ruff.244 

A Mediaeval “ Princess ”.244 

A Dutch Fishwife.245 

From a French Fashion Plate.245 

The Art of Savages : Decorative Art (I.) :— 

Nine Illustrations. 247—250 

Pictures of the Season 


Night Expelled by Day.253 

The World Forgetting.254 

“ Don’t Care was Hanged ”.255 

“ Learn of the Wise and Perpend”.257 

The Decoration of a Home 


Modern Japanese Carpet.260 

Conventional Carpet Design.260 

Cabinet (French, Seventeenth Century).261 

A Greek Crater.263 

Bookbinding Design.264 

Chinese Porcelain.264 

A Painter of the Streets :— 

J. G. Brown, Portrait of.268 

Group from “ Tough Customers”.265 


A Man of Culture (Cinque Cento) :— 

Isotta degli Atti.271 

Gismondo Malatesta.271 

The Roman Bridge, Rimini.272 

Interior of the Church of St. Francis, Rimini .... 273 



Leo Battista Alberti.276 

Facade of the Church of St. Francis, Rimini .... 277 
Queen Ann Plate :— 

Punch-Bowl: English.278 

Branch Candlestick: French.279 

Covered Cup : English.280 

Candlestick: French.280 

Tea-Caddy: English.281 

Egg-Cup: French.281 

Chocolate Jug : English.281 

The Great Classical Fallacy:— 

Fagade of Queen’s College, Oxford.284 

St. John's, Bermondsey.285 

The Burns Monument, Edinburgh.286 

Glass-Painting in the Fourteenth Century 

Decorated Grisaille Glass ........ 289 

German Glass.290 

Old Glass Figure Work.292 

Decorated Canopy.292 

Old Decorated Glass at Munich.293 

A “ Rose-Water Raphael”:— 


Frontispiece to Madame de Pompadour’s Etchings. . . 295 

The Boy in the Fields.296 

Scene from “ Le Sieilien ”.297 

Children Playing.299 

The Swing.300 

Tailpiece. 301 

The Art of Savages : Representative (II.) :— 

Nine Illustrations. 303—307 

Gretchen. (By W. Lindenschmit). 308 

The Pictures at Aston Rowant:— 

Licensing Beggars in Spain. 309 

The Burial of Themistocles. 311 

Returning from the Common. 312 

The Death of Wallenstein ........ 313 


Hide and Seek in the Woods.316 

“ The Deep Mid-Noon ”. 317 

Summer Meadows. 319 

Summer Woods. 320 

Summer Waters. 321 

Wren and St. Paul’s 

Ground Plan of St. Paul’s: Second Design . . . .322 




Wren and St. Paul’s (continued) 

Exterior of St. Paul’s : Second Design.323 

Interior of St. Paul’s: Second Design.324 

Exterior of St. Paul’s: Approved Design.325 

The Dome of St. Paul’s.326 

Signatures on the Royal Warrant.327 

Professor Legros:— 

Alphonse Legros, Portrait of.329 

The Poor at Meat.332 

Charles Darwin.333 

“ Dien Wohl, Mein Liebchen.” (By Ch. von Gavel) . . . 335 

Fitness and Fashion 

The Greek Dress.336 

The Divided Skirt.336 

Artistic Dresses.337 

Child’s Costume.337 

The Two Painters: an Art Fable. (Illustrated by H. G. Willink) 340 
The Story of a Failure 

The Prisoner of Chillon.341 

The Drawings of Albert Diirer :— 

St. Christopher.345 

Peasants Coming from Market.345 

St. George and the Dragon.346 

Two Sketches for Hanaps.346 

Study for an Etching.347 

St. Veronica’s Kerchief.348 

Felix Hungersperg, the Lutanist.348 

Portrait of an Old Man.348 

Study of an Old Man. 349 

Cardinal Mathseus Lang .. 351 

The English Claude 

Richard Wilson, Portrait of.356 


Morning. 357 

Canterbury Cathedral (I.):— 

The Ruins of the Infirmary.360 

The West Front, with Southern Porch.361 

In the Choir.363 

The Baptistery.364 

Choir Screen and Western Arch of Central Tower. . . 365 

The Portraits of Frangois I.:— 

Frangois I. (By Titian).368 

„ (By Frangois Clouet).369 

„ (By the Elder Clouet).369 

„ (By Corneille de Lyon).369 

„ (By Jehan Clouet).369 

An Ancient Picture Gallery :— 

Glaukos and Scylla. 373 

The Sea-God Nereus, with Sea Nymphs. 375 

Ariadne Abandoned by Theseus.376 

The Thames and its Poetry 

Above and Below Bridge, Sonning. 377 

The Thames above Marlow.378 

Herons in the Bulrush Beds. 379 

The Thames near Taplow.380 

The Bridge and Backwater, Sonning.381 

The Ferry at Shillingford.382 

A Fair Patrician. (By Hans Makart).383 

Byways of Book Illustration : Jacob Cats 

“ Between Two Stools ”.384 

Children’s Games.385 

“ Love Asks Return ”.388 

Current Art:— 


The Rehearsal.390 

Sidney Carton.393 

A Question of Rent.394 

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.395 

An American A.R.A. 

George H. Boughton, Portrait of.399 

Rose Standish. 397 

A Dutch Seaside Resort.400 

Japanese and Chinese Bronzes 

Incense-Burners: Japanese. 401, 402 

Pricket Candlesticks: Japanese.403 

Vase, or Incense-Burner : Chinese.404 

After the Herring (I.) 

The Morning’s Catch—Nearing the Fishing Grounds . . 405 

Cobles Putting off to Sea—Morning on the North-East Coast. 407 

Shooting the Nets—A Bit of Burnmouth.408 

At the Fishing Grounds.409 

Making for Home—At Dawn.410 

Canterbury Cathedral (n.) :— 

The Norman Transept.416 

Canterbury Cathedral from the North-East .... 416 
Christchurch Gate.417 

Hundred Portraits’ 

be Light 

Canterbury Cathedral (II.) ( continued ) 

The Crypt . 

Bell Harry Tower 
Becket’s Crown 
Van Dyck :— 

Hendrik Van Balen. 

From the Frontispiece of the 
Study of a Head 
Franz Franck, the Younger 
Jan Snellincx . 

The Children of Charles I. 

Current Art 

Herr Barnay as Mark Antony 
“ The King Drinks ” 

The Gleaners . 

“ In the Evening there shall 
Death and the Woodman 
En Fete, Calvados . 

The Norman ton Hogarth 
The Graham Family 
Some Original Ceramists:— 

Martin-Ware : Sculptural 
„ Grotesque 
„ Shaped . 

Barum-Ware : Bottles . 

„ Vases 

An Open-Air Painter 

Richard Ansdell, Portrait of 
Treading out the Corn . 

The Interrupted Meal 
After the Herring (II.):— 

The Herring Fleet. 

Fish Pier, North Shields—In Cullercoats Bay 
“ Haul awa’, Laddies; haul awa’ ”—In Shields Harbour 
The Return of the Boats—Beach near Cullercoats 
Running for Shore in a Storm .... 

Art in the Garden (I.) 

Fountain in the Borghese Garden 
Ruins at Virginia Water—Arcade at Versailles 
Grotto of Marie de Mbdicis in the Luxembourg Gardens 
Current Art 

Evening on the Sands at Ardera 
A Dirge in the Desert 
A Breezy Shore 
Miss Ellen Terry as Portia . 

Wild Swans .... 

The Ambras Collection :— 

The Helmet of Alex. Farnese, Duke of Parma 
An Ivory Vase, Sixteenth Century 
A Representative American 

Eastman Johnson, Portrait of 

The Reprimand. 

Sunday Morning. 


Kabyle Pottery :— 

Four Illustrations. 

The Harbingers of the Renaissance 
The Theft of the Palladium . 

Theseus and Ariadne .... 

The Martyrdom of St. Lawrence . 

A Prophet. 

Fra Lippo Lippi. 


Greek Myths in Greek Art (I.)—The Judgment 
From a Greeco-Etruscan Wine-Cooler 
Greek Amphora (obverse) 

„ „ (reverse) 

Drinking Cup by Hieron . 

Greek Vase. 

of P 

Studio-Life in Paris :— 

A New Arrival. 

The Model. 

The Cathedral of Orvieto 

A Side Portal. 

“ The Adoration of the Magi ” and “ 
The Central Door .... 
Pillars of the Central Door 
“ The Creation of Woman ” . 
Keramics in Japan :— 

Kiku and Kiri Crests 
Japanese Ceremonial Bouquets . 
Netsukb in Inlaid Lac 
Crest of the Tokugawas . 

The Fauna of Mythological Japan 
Paper-Weight in Hizen Porcelain 




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. 432 
. 433 
. 434 
. 435 
. 437 
. 439 

. 441 

. 443 
. 444 
445, 446 
. 448 
. 449 

. 451 
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. 460 

. 464 
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. 472 
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. 496 
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. 522 
. 523 
. 524 
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. 525 
. 526 

3rttlT=pac]e glTusfraftons. 

The Fisiier-Folks’ Harvest . 

The Reaper and the Flowers 
In the Sculpture Gallery 
The Prodigal Son . 

Jane Shore 
Leaving Home . 

The Mountain of the Holy Cross, Colorado 
The Grandfather’s Blessing 
Winter ..... 


The Professor and His Pupil 
Luther at the Diet of Worms 
The Nuremberg Madonna 
The Mid-day Rest . 

A Spanish Courtyard 
The Cellini Shield 
The Angelus . 

Episode of the Siege of Saragos 
Alone . . . . 

Narcissus .... 

The Widower . 

A Sailor’s Wife 
The Mountain Sprite 
Prince Charlie’s Parliament 
The Death of LIippolytus 
The Favourite 
The Heir Presumptive . 

In the Studio . 

Mary Ruthven. 

Homeless and Homewards 
Teucer .... 

“Laisoremus” . 

Rabelais . 

Un Passage Palpitant 
The State Shield of Charle 
The Orphans of Katwijii 
The Shepherdess and Her F 
The Judgment op Paris . 

Jolly Companions . 



By G. P. Jacomb Hood 
,, Phil Morris, A.R.A. 

,, M. Wonnenburg . 

,, Signore Ettore Ximenes 
,, M. Peynot . 

,, Yal Prinsep, A.R.A. . 
,, Frank Holl, A.R.A. 

,, Thomas Moran 
,, Adolphe Tidemand 
,, Miinthe 

„ W. Biscombe Gardner 
,, J. B. Burgess, A.R.A. 

,, Delperee 

Anon. .... 
,, G. F. Watts, R.A. 

,, G. Postrna . 

,, Benvenuto Cellini. 

,, J.-F. Millet . 

,, Jules Girardet 
,, Josef Israels. 

,, Vicomte Poveda . 

,, Luke Fildes, A.R.A. . 

,, Alphonse Legros . 

,, Conrad Dielitz 
,, W. B. Hole, A.R.S.A. 

,, From a Greek Yase 

Seymour Lucas 
George H. Boughton, 
Henriette Ronner . 
Van Dyck 


J. R. Reid 

,, Ilamo Thornycroft, A.R.A. 
,, Nicolas Mejia 
,, Emile Hebert 
,, T. Lobrichon 

,, Josef Israels . 

,, J.-F. Millet . 

From a Greek Mixing Bowl 
By Heinrich Rasch . 

,, Ed. Griitzner 


To face 5 
„ 7 

„ 45 

„ 68 
,, 80 
,, 85 

,, 93 

„ 101 
„ 116 
,, 128 
„ 137 

„ 153 

„ 167 

„ 181 
,, 192 

„ 200 

„ 221 

„ 257 

„ 283 

„ 289 

,, 309 

„ 329 

,, 345 

,, 354 

„ 373 

,, 393 

,, 399 

„ 413 

„ 429 

„ 437 

,, 441 

,, 460 

,, 468 

„ 477 

„ 480 

,, 485 

,, 491 

„ 509 

,, 520 

„ 528 

The Magazine of Art. 

- oo'fUi^lso - 


(From the Painting by W. F. Britten, in the Possession of Captain Hill.) 



I ]) RIGHTON is not suggestive of art. Philistinism 
) in its most cheerful form reigns supreme on the 
King’s Road and Marine Parade, and even the easiest 
kind of all art—aestheticism in dress—is not at home 
in the bleak and busy town, makes little display on 
the Chain Pier, and is feebly represented in the 
musters of feminine fashion. The robust advocates 
of all that is “ healthily ” tight, trim, British, and 
usual would perhaps opine that the sea-breezes were 
too wholesome for the languors of the artistic craze ; 
our own more literal reading of the matter is that the 
actual breezes that come so freshly from the sea are 
not friendly to the long and soft draperies and pre¬ 
pared accidents of pseudo-medi seval attire. However 
this may be, Brighton wears an air of determination 
to be braced which is distinctly opposed to the recollec¬ 
tion and meditation of enthusiastic art. Our precon- 

ceived notion of a Brighton picture-gallery would be 
that of an eminently “healthy” gathering of polished 
horses and dogs by Landseer, some “ legitimate ” his¬ 
trionic compositions of Maclise, studies in contempo¬ 
rary life by Mr. Frith, some of Mr. Yicat Cole’s land¬ 
scapes to remind us of the beauties of inland country, 
and a few of the many uncompromising sea-pieces 
by which English art has illustrated the severities 
of the national climate. Captain Hill’s house—one 
of many on the Marine Parade, bright, white, and 
unsuggestive—discloses a very different taste. Not 
that any strong predilection for the work of any 
of the little schools of modern English art is here 
obtrusively apparent. The collector has not insisted 
quand meme upon Mr. Burne-Jones’s ideal, or Mr. 
Pettie’s manner, or Mr. Frank Holl’s method; but 
there is everywhere an impression of good, advanced, 


sight, and some of the more centrally-placed pictures 
are so advantageously lighted and look so brilliant 
that they seem to be full of a fresh force. A 
group of older works claim first attention. These 
are mostly of small dimensions, and comprise two 
breezy and fresh sketches by David Cox with low 
horizons and plenty of sky; a fine and solemn study 
of trees (“ The Old Oak ”) by Crome, massive in 
its shadow and light, and grave in its colour- 
harmonies. A pearly little picture of a farm¬ 
yard with a group of men, and an equally rich but 
less complete picture of an interior, call up some 
curious memories, for they are George Morland’s. 
Under what circumstances were they painted? Were 
they let down by the boy-genius out of the window 
of the room, where his father kept him a close 
prisoner, and taken by an accomplice to be sold, so 
that the proceeds might pay for drunken and other 
orgies ? or were they executed in the attic in Martlett 
Court, Bow Street, where the boy lived when he ran 
away from home ? Or perhaps they belonged to the 
later period of his life, when his 
easel was surrounded by horse-dealers 
and pugilists and potboys, regaling 
themselves on gin and red her¬ 
rings, and when—though he often 
scamped his pictures, and often 
sold them for less than they were 
worth—he earned from seventy to 
one hundred guineas a week, but 
saved of it not one penny, for he 
was the victim of the duns when 
he died at the age of forty in 
the wretched sponging-house in Air 
Street, Hatton Garden. Marriage 
had not sufficed to tame him, except 
for a brief time. When court¬ 
ship and the honeymoon were over 
he returned to the old life of the 
tavern and the stable. The story 
is a melancholy one, and does not 
seem altogether to tally with these 
views of rural England, which have 
about them an air of simplicity and 
of innocence. 

A less painful, though hardly a 
less pathetic contrast than this be¬ 
tween an artist’s life and his works 
is that between age and youth, of 
which art has taken cognisance in 
so many ways, and which Mr. Phil 
Morris delineates with effect in “ The 
Reaper and the Flowers,” which is 
fhe subject of one of our illustra¬ 
tions. The merry children link hands 
and form a chain before the old man 

and interesting art, without monotony. A great 
delight in the works of one or two painters is un¬ 
doubtedly shown, but without any narrow or exclusive 
devotedness to the schools and principles of those 
painters. The impression is not, of course, literally 
correct, but it would seem at the first glance that 
all Mr. Phil Morris’s most important pictures were 
assembled here; yet painters of taste and work most 
opposed to Mr. Morris’s are there as well. Captain 
Hill has, besides, confined himself neither to his own 
time nor to his own country in his researches. 

The collection is gathered into a cluster of 
moderately-sized, well-lighted rooms, devoted entirely 
to the purposes of a gallery, except for the presence 
of a pianoforte a queue which suggests a very 
delightful combination of pleasures—Chopin with 
Corot, and other happy unions of suggestive art. 
But the whole house is flowing over with pictures, 
the drawing-room being hung with them, and even 
the obscurer walls of an anteroom being covered. 
Nothing is hung positively too high for a good 

(By Frank Holl, A.R.A.) 



on the road, hut they will not stay his advance, 
any more than they Avill be able to resist the 
progress of Time, which he symbolises, and win eh 
will bring them to be as decrepit as the old woman 
walking up the hill, and will finally cut them down 
with the scythe. All this sentiment is well ex¬ 
pressed. by Mr. Phil Morris on his canvas—one 
of the many canvases of his in the possession of 
Captain Hill. At every turn in the galleries 
the familiar manner of this artist meets the eye. 
Here is the charming “ Cradled in his Calling”— 
the sailor’s baby being carried along the cliffs; and 
here “ The Sailor’s 'Wedding,” which visitors to the 
Royal Academy have not yet had time to forget. 
“ The Sons of the Brave ”—a picture which owed 
much to its title, but which was so good that nobody 
grudged it the accidental advantage it thereby ob¬ 
tained—is also here, with a smaller replica or study 
which, except in the motive of the central group, 
offers curious points of difference, being of another 
shape—far longer, with extra figures at the sides; 
and that picture of peace, the “ Procession of Pirst 
Communicants at Dieppe”—girls in white — in 
that wonderful white drapery of Mr. Morris’s, 
which is used again in the picture of three girls 
who have been bathing, and whose toilet has been 
disturbed by a calf, this also being in Captain 
Hill’s collection, with a number of others by the 
same versatile hand. Very rarely in the history of 
art has so constant a patron been found by any one 
artist, and rarely has patronage been so deservedly 

Next in number to the examples of Mr. Phil 
Morris’s work come those of Mr. Frank Holl’s; and 
central among them is the portrait of the owner 
of the gallery, seated, full-faced, with a very strong 
and rather cold light upon the flesh, the tints of 
which are treated with a full, opaque, and diffused 
effect. The modelling of the head and the solidity of 
the work throughout place this portrait among the 
strongest achievements of an artist who, in his por¬ 
traits especially, never lets the character of his work 
exaggerate itself into the slightest mannerism. Mr. 
Holl .might easily win a more noisy reputation than 
that which he enjoys if his work were not so straightly 
and uncompromisingly honest. Of his imaginative 
compositions our opinion has never been quite so 
high ; for, whether it is that he bears too faithfully 
in mind the general artistic dulness of his public, 
or for some other reason, certain it is that he is 
somewhat inclined to be insistently and unreservedly 
obvious in his manner of painting a story and dwell¬ 
ing upon a sentiment. One of Captain Hill’s 
pictures, “ The First-born,” is a marked example 
of this temper in the artist. The subject is some¬ 
what trite and very pathetic—so pathetic that great 

reserve combined with great realism was absolutely 
necessary for its treatment with force; a less acutely 
sentimental picture would not need so much tact as 
this; but Mr. Holl has spared us nothing in his in¬ 
sistence upon his own meaning. The small coffin 
of a very young child is being carried by four little 
village girls to the grave in a rural churchyard. The 
sobbing mother follows with the father; her yearning 
action towards her child is very true and impulsive, 
but we are inclined to quarrel with his expression as 
being too deliberate a study of manly grief for perfect 
artistic sincerity. In the incident of the two very 
old men who are accompanying the baby to its grave 
lies the insistence of which we speak, and there is a 
lack of realism in the action and character of the 
peasant-woman’s delicate and high-bred hand, as it 
lies with the conscious pose of the little finger upon 
her husband’s arm. Another Academy picture by 
the same artist, showing the same merits and the 
same faults, is “ Deserted,” an early morning scene 
in London. Two policemen have picked up a child 
wrapped in a tarpaulin, and are bearing it away to 
the tender mercies of the parish; close behind them, 
and too clearly within their ken, stands the mother 
clasping her head with a gesture of despair; a com¬ 
passionate workman stands near, and a flower-woman 
leans forward to see the foundling, while a little 
girl close to her shrinks awe-struck from her first 
experience of a human tragedy. Captain Hill is 
also the fortunate possessor of a smaller study- for 
the same artist’s “ Newgate,” perhaps of all his 
compositions the most direct in feeling and the 
most painter-like in execution. As regards work¬ 
manship this study is, to our mind, in some respects 
preferable to the finished picture. 

With regard to landscapes the collection is per¬ 
haps less strikingly and unusually good than it is 
in other branches of art, but it boasts two or three 
exceptional treasures besides those already mentioned. 
Four or five examples of Corot are, as is common 
enough, of unequal merit, one or two being of 
very great beauty. Nothing could be finer than the 
small woodland scene, chilly and still with the air of 
autumn ; a slightly violet tinge in the blue of the 
sky must be accepted as characteristic of the master. 
Other examples in the room are exquisitely spiritual; 
nor do we fail to find some charm of delicacy, thought, 
or tenderness in the veriest Corot de commerce which 
was ever swept up from the old man’s studio by an 
omnivorous dealer. It may well be that his hand and 
mind had the habit of beauty, and produced it mecha¬ 
nically. It is from an excellent English picture that 
our illustration — “Toilers of the Sea”—is taken. 
Mr. G. S. Walters shows here a group of sea-gulls 
wavering in the wind over a grey and boisterous sea. 
Of different artistic and natural temper are two of 


(From the Painting by Phil Morris, A.R.A., in the Possession of Captain Hill.) 




(From the Painting hy G. S. Walters, in the Possession of Captain Hill.) 

Captain Hill’s chief possessions—a lovely example of 
Mason, and the “ Right of Way/’ which was the 
last, or almost the last, picture exhibited by Frederick 
Walker at the Academy. The former is a beautiful 
upright sylvan subject, studied in early autumn; a 
steep thin wood climbs towards the left; little girls 
in the light rustic cotton frocks and the white sun- 
bonnets which the artist was so fond of painting— 
pure, graceful, classic, yet homely figures—are gather¬ 
ing blackberries. There is a chill in the air, the 
woodland is thinning, and the slender trunks of the 
trees rising against the sky are drawn with power and 
subtlety. Everywhere is the rich, indefinite brown of 
slightly sere bramble-branches, ferns, grasses, and all 
autumnal undergrowth, without any insistent colour, 
the chief lights being in the sky and in the glow 
which rests on the children’s dresses and bonnets. 
The picture is at once “ old-masterisk ” and full of 
fresh and direct nature. Walker’s “ Right of Way” 
is a purely rustic scene of earliest spring, the time 
when the coming of the buds is rather felt than 
seen among the “ quaint anatomies ” of the trees and 
twigs ; there is a sense of vitality about them, though 
their outline is scarcely yet blunted by the tiny 
burgeon at the tip. The artist has not invested his 
spring with a conventional sunshine, but has set it 
under a low sky heavily raining in the further dis¬ 

tance where the clouds are darkened; and the land¬ 
scape is exquisitely refined in feeling and colour, 
farms and low hills lying under the quiet grey 
daylight. A stream winds abruptly down the middle 
of the composition; the fields are starred with 
daisies, the size of which the artist has pardonably 
and affectionately exaggerated for the sake of 
emphasis, and a menacing sheep, with her Huffy 
lamb under her protection, disputes the right of 
way with a little boy, who clings to his elder sister 
for defence; an expressive little black dog looks on 
dubiously. The life of the picture is as charming 
as the landscape, the lambs especially being drawn 
with great character and feeling. 

It is interesting to compare these examples of 
our two great departed artists with one or two small 
canvases from the brush of the still greater Millet. 
One of these is a richly-coloured little study of a 
single figure of a shepherd, very noble in line, clad in 
a long mantle, and relieved in light against the dark 
of trees; a slight and delicate landscape opens to the 
right, beyond a thick flock of sheep. Still more 
solemn in effect are a vigorous wood and sea study, 
and a hasty sketch of a wild peasant girl, an inno¬ 
cent barbarian, a sylvan figure standing shyly but 
unconsciously in her own appropriate woods. 

M. Israels’ genius is represented by the well- 


(From the Painting by M. Wormenburg, in the Possession of Captain IIdl.) 



known subject of two children floating their boat in 
the shallow sea—one of the very few happy pictures 
he has painted—and by two others more according to 
his usual vein. One of these is also a seaside scene : 
a fisherman’s wife, in the large poke-bonnet which 
the women of Flanders and parts of Holland have 
clung to for some sixty years, is seated in a stormy 
evening on the beach waiting for her husband’s boat; 
her little son stands at her side with his hand upon 
her shoulder. The subject belongs, of course, to the 
very routine of sentiment, and has probably been 
painted, with slight varieties, by M. Israels himself 
so often that the suspicion of manufacture might 
cling to it—and we might hear of an Israels cle 
commerce —but that this master of pathos has given 
to his work, chiefly by means of undemonstrative 
quietness, a freshness, sincerity, and realism which 
constitute the note of modem genius. Another 
picture by the same hand is still sadder and even 
simpler; it is an interior. An old woman sits in the 
dark homely room of a Dutch cottage; within the 
panelled alcove which contains the bed lies her still 
older husband, ill. It is the closing of the long com¬ 
panionship, and the two are together in that pathetic 
repetition of the tete-a-tete of newly-married life 
which occurs towards the end, when the last of the 
children have long departed, and more than the 
silence of the honeymoon steals upon the little house. 
The beauty of M. Israels’ colour is very apparent 
in these smoke-browned and half-lighted interiors, 
where he suggests and implies a wealth of latent 
colour in a darkness and dimness full of mystery. 
Caplain Hill has made quite a collection of Mme. 
Cazin’s landscapes. This artist’s work was more pro¬ 
minent a few years ago in London than it is now; 
it has always been unequal—strongly mannered and 
individual. Her chief merits are great harmony 
and unity of colour and effect; her chief faults a 
lack of light, especially in the skies, which are heavy 
in tone, and a peculiarity of surface suggestive, in 
the extremest examples, of blotting-paper—a general 
opaque softness which is very unattractive. When, 
as is’the case notably in one little picture here, she 
compasses any freshness or luminosity, her manner is 
very charming and very true. M. Fantin is repre¬ 
sented by one strongly-painted bouquet of chrysan¬ 
themums in a tall blue and white vase against 
the usual dark background. Among Captain Hill’s 
water-colours are a series of drawings, chiefly archi¬ 
tectural, from the pencil of M. Jules Lessore, an 
artist who has an unusual aptitude in ti’eating the 
movement and coming and going of street-life, and 
who, in these more deliberate and less impressionary 
scenes, works with great freshness as well as accuracy 
and vigour. Of a true master of impression—M. 
Degas—whose pictures, exhibited some years ago in 

Bond Street, Captain Hill has collected, we must 
speak at length on another occasion. “ The Sculp¬ 
ture Gallery,” by M. Wounenburg, and Mr. Britten’s 
“ Dancing,” are the subjects of two of our woodcuts. 
Our readers will not have forgotten the very remark¬ 
able “ Flight of Helen ” by the latter artist in the 
Grosvenor Gallery of 1881 —a brilliant performance, 
showing rare qualities of dramatic imagination and 
decorative audacity, with a fine feeling for light. It 
is interesting to meet the artist in his smaller work. 
“ The Sculpture Gallery” is a good bit of character, 
the subject being one of those quaint juxtapositions 
of the modern and the ancient which produce piquant 
pictures of genre; in execution it is singularly complete. 
From the same artist’s hand is a bit of antique life, in 
which the painting of some white marble rivals that 
of the very master of white marble—Alma-Tadema. 

Mr. Orcbardson is represented chiefly by that 
picture of “ Hamlet and the King” which, like all 
the artist’s Hamlet pictures, provoked much contro¬ 
versy and evoked many hostile criticisms in the year 
of its exhibition. If opinions were divided upon its 
merits, it may be said that they were divided with 
very good reason, inasmuch as the two figures are 
unequal in merit. The one is quite subordinate to 
the other, and unfortunately it is the subordinate 
figure which is most felicitous. The prince advances 
full-face, with his irresolute, meditative head bent, 
and far to the right, and more in the background, 
kneels the king in an agony of prayer—and his 
action, though only seen from behind, is intense 
and complete. Hamlet is somewhat suggestive of 
the stage, and the type of head is by no means 
high in character. It is somewhat paradoxical that 
whereas no actor entirely fails with Hamlet, no 
painter has ever entirely succeeded with him'— 
perhaps because the part is so interestingly complex 
that it acts itself, in spite of the unintelligence of 
the actor; but in the immobility and singleness of 
a picture we look for something more like the ideal 
of our eyes, because the play no longer engrosses us. 
Mr. Orchardson has apparently aimed at making his 
hero very human, and with this object has probably 
painted too faithful a portrait of a model not en¬ 
dowed with the majesty of Denmark. 

Mr. Pettie’s vigorously and brilliantly-painted 
group of “ Jacobites ” is the principal work by that 
artist in the rooms ; it will probably always be one 
of the best remembered among his dramatic studies 
in historical genre. As a rule, the genius of the house 
seems to incline rather markedly to the “ idyllic ” in 
subject and in feeling; and we are relieved rather 
than disappointed to find that the costume picture— 
in less able, strong, and vivid hands than Mr. Pettie’s 
so emptily if not vulgarly romantic a work of art—is 
rare in this collection. Alice Meynell. 


- - o•-- 

rilHE questions that are raised in this paper are 
amongst the gravest that a painter can ask 
himself: and I do not claim to give them an ex¬ 
haustive answer. I do not know, indeed, that I 
need answer them at all, for the simple asking of 
them may be sufficient to change the whole current 
of a man’s thoughts, and the answer to them should 
be wrought out in a life of patient study. 

The year is waning. As the days grow shorter 
for work, so the evenings grow longer for thinking; 
and I am writing from a little village in Nor¬ 
mandy where, if anywhere on the face of this fair 
earth, the waning of the year is full of tender 
beauty. A broad river, where the ships, proud of 
their three tall masts, come sailing lazily down, 
laden with 
stuffs from 
Rouen, to 
the busy 




port of Havre; a level sweep of corn-fields, and then 
hills at either side; a village of quaint timbered 
houses of many centuries ago, with its church of 
transcendent beauty reflected in the placid stream. 
Ah ! that church is one of the jewels of “ La Belle 
France ; ” its tracery is as delicate as the fretwork 
of forest-trees, its stained glass as translucent as 
the river, its walls and foundations as strong as 
the rocks from which they were cut. If I were a 
landscape-painter I would not only ask questions, 
but would illustrate them with sketches too. 

That, however, is not to be ; so draw for me— 
O artist, cunning in the craft—draw for me a 
village farm in England, with its gabled roof, and 
stacked chimneys, and outbuildings, and moat, and 

trees already thinned of 
leaves but not quite 
bare, and rank rushes, 
and faintly-glimmering 
sky—while I “ lie i’ the 
sun” on the long grass 
by the Seine, and ask 
questions about the Wan¬ 
ing of the Year, and what 
it means to the artist 
and to the lover of Art. 

For if it is well for 
the historical painter to 
know something of the 
passion of life; if it is 
well for the painter of 
a cathedral church to 
know something of the 
associations which cling to 
his subject, and to under¬ 
stand the subtle influence upon 
the mind of simple lines in their in¬ 
finite combinations of proportion and 
curvature; if it is well for the painter 
of animal life to be able to differentiate the 
brutes by their fine instincts, and for the 
painter of flowers to perceive the laws by 
which their symmetry is maintained; then 
it is well also for the landscapist to discern 
I the difference between the sound of the 
wind in a plantation of poplars and in a 
forest of pine-trees, and to know wherein 
Autumn is less sad than Spring. 

To know wherein Autumn is less sad than Spring 
■—these last half-dozen words, which I have italicised, 
lead to a whole string of questions at once. Is it 




phase of Art that claims to take Nature as its 
theme and the representation of Nature as 
its manifestation. The painter brings visions 
before our eyes which raise thoughts in our 
minds : the poet raises thoughts in our 

which lie can himself, unaided, 
answer. But it is more than 
a painter’s question : 
the answer to it 
affects every 

true that Autumn is less sad than Spring ? In 
what sense is Autumn less sad than Spring? And 
if it is so—what then ? This is a very simple for¬ 
mula of cross-examination, but the “what then?” 
includes a great deal. To the painter it includes 
the whole question whether there is in Nature any 
expression of the passion of our lives, and how far 
it is desirable or possible to embody that expression 
in his work. 

The question, then, is first of all a painter’s 
question; though it is not so certain that it is one 

minds which bring visions before our eyes. 

That is the affinity, as it is also the dif¬ 
ference, between them; and it is not for one 
to challenge for himself a higher standing- 
ground than he will concede to the other. 

Each of them should be both a teacher and 
a learner, until he knows all that the other knows. 
Each should be an independent interpreter of Nature, 
to whom the other may look when he comes upon 
a difficult passage. Each should help the other to 
work out his paradise. Each should strengthen the 
other in his work. And if Autumn is less sad than 
Spring, each should declare it, and should be able 
to tell the other why. 

But the year is waning—is the painter sorry 
or glad? Is it not just what he has been waiting 
for ? The leaves on the oak, have they not budded 
in the spring, and grown green and full in the long 
days of summer, all that they may strew the ground 
a little later, or flutter in crimson and gold for him 
against the sky? The gabled roof is jewelled with 




delicate lichen and 
purple moss. The rank Jv 
grass is full of happy 
life. The barns will 
soon be full of wheat. 

The cattle are lowing in 
the fields. The wain stands 
laden at the gate. October may be chill, but it is 
not sad, at least it is not in . the Surrey farmyard 
which stands as one of the artist's sketches of the 
Waning of the Year. 

Nor in his first sketch either—of the road 
thrc nigh the park; where his footfall among the 
rustling leaves, startling a covey of rabbits, will 
save them for the moment, by scuttling them to 
shelter from imaginary danger, from the real danger 
of the enemy that lieth in wait. Is Autumn less 
sad than Spring ? Take these two sketches as a 
first rough answer to the question. 

But then, as I have said, the question belongs 
not to the painter only, but to the poet also. And 
as these two, alike in so many respects, approach 
Nature in so very different a manner, it is almost 
certain that the answer brought by one will be at 
least helpful to the other. Is Autumn less sad than 

Spring ? Let us ask Robert Burns— 

“ In vain to me the cowslips hlaw, 

In vam to me the violets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, 
Blithe waukens by the daisy’s side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.” 

It may be doubted 
whether there can 
be found in litera¬ 
ture words more 
vividly realistic of 
the tender loveli¬ 
ness of Spring, 
or words touched 
with a deeper 
melancholy. And 
then, listen to 

“ Grief made the young 
Spring wild, and 
she threw down 
Her kindling buds, as 
if she Autumn were, 
Or they dead leaves.” 

Surely, to our first 
question, Shelley 
and Burns give no 
uncertain answer. 

But if that is 
what the poets have 
to say of Spring, 
let us see what they 
can tell us of 
Autumn. In the 
“ Faerie Queene ” 
Spring bears in his 
hand a javelin, and 
on his head a morion, because he is feared also, even 
a.s he is loved. But jolly Autumn carries a sickle, and 
is crowned with a wreath enrolled with ears of corn of 
every sort. And this gladness, common to our earlier 
jroets, is in strict agreement with the spirit of one of 
the last of the band who have passed into the “ blind 
world”of Dante. Hood has left us an Autumn sketch, 
Ruth gleaning, which if not “ full of glee ” like the 
merry October of Spenser, is yet full of the gladness 
that comes with the beauty of the ripening year. 

“She stood breast high amid the corn, 

Clasp’d by the golden light of morn, 

Like the sweetheart of the sun 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an Autumn flush 
Deeply ripen’d ; such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 

Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Bound her eyes her tresses fell, 

Which were blackest none cculd tell; 

But long lashes veil’d a light, 

That had else been all too bright. 

Sure, I said, beav’n did not mean, 

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,” 

—and this is Autumn. What is there in 
that shall compare with it for gladness ! 





So the first question is answered. Burns, from 
the ploughshare and the rough weather of the north; 
Shelley, from the classic associations and sunny skies 
of Italy; Spenser, from the Court of Elizabeth and 
the companionship of Raleigh and Sidney; Hood, 
from the busy life of a great city—all these, and a 
hundred more beside— 

“ Who dare not trust a larger lay, 

But only loosen from the lip 
Short swallow flights of song, that dip 
Their wings in tears, and skim away”— 

have confessed, not only that they have no hitter 
lamentations for the declining year, but— 

‘ ‘ That in the very temple of delight 
Veil’d melancholy has her sovran shrine” 

—in a word, that Autumn is less sad than Spring. 

But in answering the first question the second is 
answered too. While I, on the Seine, have been 
questioning ‘Burns and Shelley, and the rest, my 
friend the artist has been sketching in Holmwood 
Park, far away in dear old 
Surrey, and he now sends me 
drawings of a purling brook 
overshadowed by trees, and of 
a path through a wood 
strewn with rustling leaves. 

I do not know what may 
have been in his heart while 
he was sketching, but there 
is no sadness in his sketches. 

He may have been as grave as the 
solitary heron that mopes in the corner 
of one picture, or as light-hearted 
as the squirrel that scuds 
across the other. But he 
does not show it. His 
sketches are of Autumn, 
of Holmwood Park, of a 
rustic bridge, of a wooded 
stream, of a hundred 
things, but not of him¬ 
self. If Autumn is to me 
sad, then I shall be sad in 
looking* on these sketches 
—as I should be sad in 
Holmwood Park. But 
the sadness will be 
esoteric. For if the 
very brightest scenes 
of Nature are thus 
touched with melancholy, 
it is a melancholy born 
of the secret soul’s dis¬ 
trust.” Bums, woe-worn amidst 
the violets and cowslips, listening 
sadly to the linnet and thrush. 

gliding homeward like a ghost because he cannot 
bear to hear the singing of the lark, was not painting 
from Nature. If the picture he lias given us of a 
May morning is landscape at all, it is like one 
of those fantastic creations of the imagination in 
which the lines of the mountains and the branches 
of the trees are made to serve a double purpose. 
They represent more than we see in them at first. 
We look, and look again, until we perceive that 
they trace out a distinct figure. The figure in this 
instance is that of a man. We look more closely 
still, and lo ! the man is Burns himself. 

This is anthropomorphism pure and simple. But 
is it an isolated case ? Is it peculiar to Burns that 
he should thus paint himself when he thinks that he 
is painting Nature ? Let us examine a companion 
picture to that which Burns has given us. Instead 
of Spring it shall be Autumn; for the javelin that 
Spring carries is of young wood, and may perhaps 
bend to the poet’s fancy, but the sickle of Autumn is 




of sharp steel. Instead of the banks and braes of bonnie 
Scotland it shall be a stern forest in the far west. Instead 
of Burns it shall be Bryant. 

“ The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, 

Have put their glory on. 

The mountains that infold 
In their wide sweep the colour’d landscape round 
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold 
That guard enchanted ground. 

I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, 

Where the gay company of trees look down 
On the green fields below. 

My steps are not alone 

In these bright walks ; the sweet south-west at play, 

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 
Along the winding way. 

And far in heaven the while 
The sun that sends the gale to wander here 
Pom's out on the fair earth his quiet smile, 

The sweetest of the year.” 

Again the occult figure of a man. A man who sees himself projected as a giant on the distant horizon. He 
lifts his hand—it lifts its hand. He would guard the enchanted ground—it is guarded by the mountains as 
by giant kings. He looks down with a glad heart on the green fields; the trees are glad with him, and look 
down also. He smiles with tranquil happiness on the fair earth, and lo! the sun is smiling too. It is 
Autumn, and he is not sad. Let Burns go home like a ghost on a Spring morning! As for him, in this, 
the sweetest of the year “ it were a lot too blest 

For ever in its colour’d shades to stay; 

Amid the kisses of the soft south-west, 

To rove and dream for aye.” 

And if this is anthropomorphism in art, what then ? Only this. The painter must fight against it as 
the most terrible temptation that can assail him. Whatever the poet may do, the painter must not paint 




himself into Nature. Why, 
when the year is waning, 
does he shut up his studio 
in London, and go to the 
woods, and fields, and rivers, 
and hills, except that he 
may get face to face with 
a presence that is greater 
than himself, that he cannot 
find by introspection, that he cannot live without, that when he does find he must reverence and obey? 
Why does he take with him his easel and canvas, and set them up in that presence, unless he does 
so with a true heart, as a worshipper before the shrine of One greater than Pan ? Let him leave at 



home his fancies, and his habits, and his methods, 
and his tricks, and for once clothe himself with 
humility. It is only thus that he will ever become 
exalted. For what we ask of the artist is not 

Nature as she seems to him, but Nature as she is. 

I know he can never give us this absolutely, but he 

can be always striving after it, and the nearer his 

work approaches it the better it will be. And to 
approach it he must keep his vision clear. There 
must be no Brocken upon his horizon. He must so 
paint that looking upon his pictures we may still 
question, and at the same time find in them the 
answer to the question, wherein Autumn may be less 
sad than Spring. Wyke Bayliss. 




T is to the State of Ohio that we must look for 
the birthplace of one of the most powerful 
and original artists America has produced. William 
II. Beard was born at Painesville, Ohio, in 1821. 
His grandfather, who was of English descent, was 
a judge of the Supreme Court of Connecticut. Mr. 
Beard’s father, being of altogether different disposi¬ 
tion, went early to sea, and commanded a ship before 
he was of age. Becoming weary of this, he aban¬ 
doned a seafaring life and settled in Buffalo, a port 
on Lake Erie, and married. His wife was M iss 
McLean, a lady of Scotch descent. From Buffalo 
Captain Beard removed once more to Painesville, 
where he died soon after the birth of his son William. 
The details regarding the early life of Mr. Beard are 
not as unimportant as they might be in a long- 
settled country. They have a distinct bearing on his 
art, and give to it the flavour of originality that it 
might have lacked under more favourable circum¬ 
stances. For it is difficult to imagine any civilised 
community apparently less suited to the encourage¬ 
ment of art than the State of Ohio at that time. 

Although at present the mother of two presidents, 
and in point of thrift and intelligence the central 
State of the Union, Ohio, in 1821, was but thirty- 
three years old ; the first white settlement was made 
in 1788. When Captain Beard moved to Painesville 
he carried his family and chattels across a primeval 
country in rough canvas-covered waggons, and the 
wolves yelped at night around the humble cabin 
he built. Although settlers poured fast into the 
New State, who carried with them the Bible and 
Shakespeare, together with the indomitable enter¬ 
prise and sturdy religious tenets of their ancestiy, 
yet it is not in clearing the wilderness and fight¬ 
ing with savages that the fine .arts are stimulated 
by the influences most favourable to their growth. 
They are generally the result of an advanced civilisa¬ 
tion, and are fostered by the patronage of wealth. 
And yet it is exactly from such primitive sources 
that the talents of some of America’s ablest artists 
have sprung into being. Notwithstanding what has 


been so often urged against the hitherto uneesthetic 
character of American civilisation, this fact would 
seem to indicate a decided potential appreciation of 
art that is destined, with increasing culture, to de¬ 
velop into a controlling national influence. 

The impulse to express his thoughts with a pencil 
sought a vent early in the case of Mr. Beard. But 
at first it took a turn which one who has only seen 
Lis animal paintings would hardly expect to find in 
his art. It was the mysterious and the horrible that 
the lad sought to delineate. In a small garret over 
a shop this uninstructed youth attempted to represent 
such scenes as the meeting of Satan and Death in 
“ Paradise Lost.” But aside from his absolute want 
of instruction, bis representation of the Devil was 
the traditional grotesque fiend of the Middle Ages, 
with forked tail and horns. Young Beard’s mother, 
who was a woman of considerable reading and fine 
natural powers, laughed at this ludicrously lugubrious 
conception, saying that Milton at least represented 
Satan as a being of fine person and a gentleman. 

About this time Mr. Beard’s elder brother James 
was painting portraits in Buffalo ; William followed 
him thither and took lessons of him. James, who 
has since then developed into an artist of consider¬ 
able merit, especially in the painting of dogs, was 
himself at that time not over well-grounded in the 
practice of art, nor was there much in Buffalo to en¬ 
courage the rising artist. A small stockade had been 
established there in the war of 1812. Population 
gradually gathered around this nucleus, but the place 
was not incorporated until 1831; and although to¬ 
day a handsome city of nearly two hundred thousand 
people, it was scarcely more than a large village 
when William Beard was studying with his brother. 
Not a very encouraging field this for an ambitious 
painter ! 

James Beard next moved to New York City, 
where he has continued ever since. William followed 
him, and remained there a short time. After this 
very moderate foundation for his chosen pursuit, 
young Beard started out on an itinerant course of 



portrait-painting through Ohio, taking the portraits 
of country clergymen or farmers'’ wives and daugh¬ 
ters for a few dollars a head, or “ taking the conceit 
out of them/'’ as Mr. Beard quaintly observes. This 
was then quite a common practice with American 
artists, and some, like J. D. Harding, were remark¬ 
ably successful in winning both fame and money 
by that means. But it appears to have been other¬ 
wise with Mr. Beard. While he is able to seize 
a tolerable likeness, yet his fancy teeming with 

a unique and prominent position among the artists 
of the age. 

Mr. Beard’s mind was from the first of a highly 
imaginative turn, as has been already suggested. 
Notwithstanding the comic element which has be¬ 
come one of the most conspicuous features of his 
works, his genius has always been tinged with a 
sombre cast, together with a tendency to mysticism. 
It is to this characteristic that we owe such terrible 
compositions as his well-known “ Power of Death.” 

original creations demanding expression, or his too 
keen perception of the foibles and failings of his 
sitters, seems to prevent him from achieving full 
success in this department. The portrait-painter 
should be able to flatter; the more subtle the flattery 
the moi’e successful the artist. But it is difficult to 
imagine Mr. Beard flattering any one with his brush. 

Finding this field unprofitable, Mr. Beard no 
longer hesitated to yield to the imperative impulse 
of his genius, die returned to Buffalo and boldly 
commenced a series of masterly compositions in a 
thoroughly original vein, which have won for him 

The mighty elephant, the grandest emblem of animal 
life and power, lies prostrate before the touch of the 
omnipotent spectre, who without an effort grasps and 
rends the yelling tiger now impotent in the clutch of 
the last foe, while the lion looks on appalled by the 
fearful evidence of a strength that is to paralyse and 
slay him in turn. There is something Miltonic in 
the grandeur of this conception. The more forceful 
scenes from the wonderful pencil of Dore are also 
suggested by this picture, but it should be added that 
it was executed before the artist had ever heard of 
Dore, who was only then becoming known. 




(From the Painting by W. H. Beard, N.A.) 

“ The Gathering at the Cairn,” representing a 
meeting of witches and hell-cats, is another composi¬ 
tion drawn from the same source of inspiration; as 
the title indicates, this picture is grim and myste¬ 
rious. \Y e gain a forcible illustration of the wide 
scope of this artistes powers when we turn from 
this design to such works as his “Star of Bethle¬ 
hem,” and “ He Leadeth Me by the Still Waters.” 
The latter, representing the Divine Shepherd guiding 
His Hock through a pleasant land, is so beautiful 
and serene in the beatific blessedness it suggests, that 
it has aronsed profound emotion in those who have 
gazed upon it. “ Lo, the Poor Indian,” is another 
very interesting work by this versatile genius. In 
the early morning, when a wild wind is sweeping over 
the vast wastes of the prairies, a solitary Indian is 
seen recumbent on the long herbage. Some unusual 
sound has aroused him, or perhaps thoughts of the 
Great Spirit whose foi’m he dimly perceives in the 
stormy sky walking on the winds. Half resting on 
his elbow, he gazes astonished. The scene nobly 
typifies the grandeur of the aboriginal character and 
the mysterious destiny of the North American Indian. 
It is a sublime subject treated with admirable success. 

But while we desire to emphasise the wide range 
of subject chosen by Mr. Beard, it still remains true 
that he is most widely known for his inimitable de¬ 
lineations of animal life. We ought rather to call them 
satires on the frailties or human nature, for it is under 
this transparent guise that he has attacked or in¬ 
structed our race. Sometimes these scenes are wholly 
humorous, sometimes they are profoundly satirical. 
Of course, to do this with success, the artist should 
be a keen observer of the characteristics of both 

animals and men. At what time Mr. Beard began 
to give special attention to the drawing of animals 
he is unable to say. He is an example of the fact 
that the first attempts of genius do not always 
foretell the character of the coming man. For, as 
we have seen, his earliest efforts scarcely suggested 
the branch of art by which he has since become cele¬ 
brated. Almost unconsciously to himself he drifted 
into animal-painting and found the vocation for 
which he was intended. Spontaneity is a sure ac¬ 
companiment of genius. It is a noteworthy circum¬ 
stance that in addition to the fact that the little 
instruction he had was most rudimentary, Mr. Beard 
has but very rarely depended upon studies from 
nature. To a close observation he adds a tenacious 
memory; thus aided, his imagination has enabled 
him to represent the essential qualities of his sub¬ 
jects with a fidelity that men of mere talent can 
never acquire. It has also been his habit for many 
years to compose his more elaborate groups from 
plaster models which he has made himself, but for 
these also he has depended upon memory and logic 
rather than direct drawings from the life. Logic 
may seem a singular faculty to employ in art- 
practice, but it is undoubtedly by conscious or in¬ 
tuitive reasoning regarding the necessary position 
of the muscles in action that painters who excel 
in movement are able to reach their results. How 
otherwise could Rubens or Michael Angelo have 
represented such astonishing groups of figures in 
every conceivable posture, often in such positions as 
it would be impossible for a model to maintain long 
enough to be portrayed ? It is thus in every effect of 
nature requiring intense action. How shall one draw 



a wave rushing by at thirty miles an hour and altering 
its form every instant ? How shall one seize the 
action of a charge of cavalry, or the varied expres¬ 
sions chasing each other over a face convulsed by 
a sudden access of passion ? One reason why action 
in painting is so rare in the art of the present day, 
why figures are so often composed as if standing 
before a photographic camera, is simply because 
in the over-study from the life in modern art the 
memory is allowed no scope for culture, and the 
imagination, which is founded on memory, is thus 
made to play quite a secondary part. But that the 
imagination is the leading factor in the highest art 
will hardly be disputed. Study nature by all means, 
but when you have done that, let the imagination 
take command of your pencil. What we have said is 
also an argument against those who insist that there 
is only one way to study nature. There are as many 
ways as there are artists of genius to make it a study. 

of composition, and possibly influenced his eye for 
colour. Mr. Beard has always painted with a simple 
palette, chiefly employing ochres. While colour is 
not an important feature of his art, yet he is not 
deficient in a perception of chromatic effects. He lays 
on colour with moderate solidity, sometimes leaving 
an impression of dryness, but the motif of the work 
generally dominates all other ideas when one is 
studying his vivid compositions. 

On returning from Europe Mr. Beard was made 
an Associate of the National Academy of Design. This 
institution was founded in 1828, and in its organisa¬ 
tion resembles the Royal Academy of London. Its 
exhibitions are held in a building of marble modelled 
after the Venetian style, and it is in a thriving con¬ 
dition. The following year Mr. Beard painted the 
remarkable picture entitled “ The Dance of SilenusU 
So lively a sensation did it produce that the artist was 
at once elected an Academician. Praise and abuse were 

(From the Painting by W. H. Beard, N.A.) 

This may seem a truism, and yet how few artists or 
critics give it practical acceptance. 

After eight years'’ residence at Buffalo, Mr. Beard, 
furnished with several important commissions, sailed 
for Europe, where he passed two years, chiefly at Diis- 
seldorf and Rome. He entered the studio of no mas¬ 
ter, but applied himself to a general observation and 
study of art, which Seems to have benefited his method 

alike called forth from the press by this remarkable 
work, but the general opinion was favourable. The 
attacks were based chiefly upon moral grounds. It 
was urged that the silly expression and attitude of 
the bear who represented the tipsy demigod, and 
of the leering goats who danced around him, were 
of a corrupting nature. We cannot so regard the 
picture, which in reality inculcated a great lesson in 



an inimitable manner. Mr. Beard has executed more 
attractive works, and indicated more subtlety in his 
satire, but has never exceeded the originality and 
power of “The Dance of Silenus." 

His rapidly-growing reputation now induced Mr. 
Beard to leave Buffalo and settle in New York, where 
the opportunities for art-influences and wealth are 
much greater than in a provincial town. He estab¬ 
lished himself in the studio building in Tenth Street, 
which is a well-known rookery, where many of the 
best artists of America have collected for years, and 
which they have enriched with numerous picturesque 
associations. Far more than in Europe, it is a custom 
in America to erect large buildings expressly for 

In 1867 Mr. Beard painted “Raining Cats and 
Dogs/’ a wholly humorous scene, and in 1874 an 
altogether different picture called “The Wreckers/"’ 
of which we give an engraving. After the noble ship 
has yielded at last to the buffeting of the billows and 
the storms, then the ravens come and croak over its 
shattered remains and complete the ravages of the de¬ 
stroyer. “ Making Game of the Hunter" was painted 
in 1880, and was exhibited in 1881 at the National 
Academy of Design. In this recent work he indicates 
that his faculties show no sign of decay, but with 
growing maturity continue to display undiminished 
technical ability and opulence of imagination. The 
preliminary group of plaster easts which he modelled 
for this painting is excessively comic. Every painter 
of the figure ought to be at least a sculptor in posse, if 
not in esse. That a sculptor may also be a painter 
is far less likely ; but how one who knows enough to 
project a figure or a ship in perspective on a plane 
surface should be unable to model it in wood or 
plaster seems inconceivable. 

No recent work of Mr. Beard’s is more elaborate, 
or more plainly shows the resources of his imagina¬ 
tion, than the great painting entitled “ Bulls and 
Bears in Wall Street." Through this thoroughfare, 
the financial centre of New York and of the United 
States, we see a vast crowd of struggling bears and 
bulls rending each other in a tremendous conflict for 
the mastery. They are all in dead earnest ; it is 
evident that they have serious work on hand. But 
the severity of the battle is relieved by touches of 
humour, such as a bear tossed in the air or a bull 
with a tuft of wool on his horns. In a side eddy a 
bear is seen sitting on the pavement busily examining 
the hide of a bull he has slaughtered and plundered; 
in another corner a bear is observed busily engaged 
in studying his account book. In the foreground a 
magnificent bull with triumphant mien stands for¬ 
ward as champion, and seems to claim the battle 
for his comrades. The hue and cry of the Stock 
Exchange, the vast nervous energy, the terrific 

passions and the tragedies and successes of that 
maelstrom of life in the nineteenth century, have 
never before been suggested with such vividness and 

“ Bears on a Bender" represents a number of 
ursines on a spree. Animals possessed of much 
personal dignity, they have yet in this case forgotten 
themselves in too liberal potations, and are seen in a 
greenwood acting very much as a party of gentlemen 
might under similar circumstances. “ The Travelled 
Fox " takes off a well-known species of traveller, and 
“ The Flaw in the Title" represents a number of 
apes gravely engaged in endeavouring to break a 
contract, unfortunately not a rare proceeding in the 
present age. 

“The New Tenant" is a capital bit from every¬ 
day life. An old woman returns to her house, and 
is astonished to find that an owl has taken possession, 
and proposes to frighten her out of her rights. “ The 
Bore " represents an ape sitting with his elbow firmly 
planted on a table across which he leans, and, with 
fixed eye and an air as if he had come to stay, holds 
another ape while he forces him to listen to his end¬ 
less chatter. 

“ The Fallen Landmark," “ The Fox-Hunter’s 
Dream," “The End of Time," “Worn Out"—-an 
old master, an old horse, an old everything, replete 
with a quaint pathos and humour—“ The Cattle 
upon a Thousand Hills," and “ Oh, my ! " suggest 
by their titles the scope of this artist’s genius and 
observation. “ The Mass Meeting " is a mild satire 
on the political gatherings which are such a promi¬ 
nent feature of politics in America. We see before 
us a crowd of monkeys in men’s garb, who are so 
skilfully and individually rendered that each repre¬ 
sents a type of human character. Some are collected 
in knots sagely discussing the questions at issue, 
while others, again, are listening to the harangue of 
a demagogue ape who, from the desk on the platform, 
vehemently hurls a volley of partisan arguments at 
his audience. 

In all these works the motif or ruling thought of 
the picture is so intensely vivid that one is liable to 
overlook the subtle analysis of character they dis¬ 
play, and the likeness which Mr. Beard has discovered 
between certain animals and their corresponding 
human types. We have all fancied now and then that 
we traced the resemblance of a certain dog, horse, 
sheep, or bird to some acquaintance of ours. Some¬ 
times this likeness is seen in the profile, sometimes in 
the general expression of the features, or in the move¬ 
ments of the individual. At other times it defies 
analysis, while we are provokingly conscious of an 
elusive but undoubted likeness. Now Air. Beard 
has carried the matter still further, and discovered 
that the types of character or physical resemblance 



in men have corresponding types in specific races of 
animals. Thus the ape suggests one class of men, 
the bear another, the rabbit yet another, while the 
owl or the cat resembles in turn certain distinct phases 
of humanity. When we regard his paintings, there¬ 
fore, we are at once struck with the propriety of the 
selection he has made from the animal kingdom to 
convey the moral he had in view. 

Another feature of Mr. Beard’s paintings is 
liable to escape attention in the entertainment 
afforded by the subject. We refer to the clever¬ 
ness of the art with which he relates a story. 
Fully recognising the limitations of pictorial art, 
representing as it does but an instant in a drama, 
he never undertakes to tell too much, but con¬ 
centrates the attention on that one leading inci¬ 
dent. This, of course, is accomplished by thoroughly 
artistic composition. The weak points in his work 
result probably from the lack of early training and 
the later influence of Diisseldorf. To the former 
we owe the occasional weakness of his drawing, 
and to the latter a suspicion of conventionalism in his 
foliage, and sometimes an unnatural crudeness in the 
greens of his landscapes. These blemishes, however, 
are not prominent, nor are they always apparent. 

Mr. Beard’s position in the ranks of art is of so 
varied a character that it is somewhat difficult to class 
him. The prevailing trait of his mind, as we have 
seen, is imagination. It controls his being; even 
when he is brought into contact with active life he 

conveys the impression that his fancy is busily at 
work. Without saying, perhaps, that he is a dreamer, 
we are conscious that his thoughts are ready at any 
moment to wander off into dreamland. It is thus 
that he assimilates what he observes, and through 
the imaginative faculty also inclines so often to a 
poetic view of life. It is through the vividness of 
his imagination also that he is able to trace such 
nice distinctions in character. The prominence he 
has acquired as a satirist or teacher of morals does 
not, however, lead him to transgress the great law 
which so many painters of our time, as well as such 
critics as Taine, insist upon as fundamental—the 
principle that the true artist has no business to be a 
teacher, that is, to paint with a direct moral purpose 
in view. While we cannot accept this general law 
without reserve, yet i.t can be said that Mr. Beard 
has never made it his aim to be either a moralist or a 
guide. Whatever he has painted has come sponta¬ 
neously, being simply the expression of feelings 
naturally suggested to him by his environment and 
the dramatic turn of his mind. Thus he fulfils the 
highest art-canon, to which all others yield prece¬ 
dence, that an artist should first of all be true to 
himself. It is no disparagement to his art, but 
rather an evidence of the extent of his powers, that 
in so doing he has by his pictorial apologues allied 
himself to the great school of teachers and observers 
of which HUsop, Lafontaine, and Gay are such illus¬ 
trious examples. S. G. W. Benjamin. 


may be considered 
from either of two 
points. It may be 
looked at as glass or as paint¬ 
ing. Those who consider it 
only from the painter’s point 
of view never cease to lament 
its limitations as an art. Those who 
contemplate it from the point of view 
of glass, from the decorative and more 
technical point of view, that is, lament only its per¬ 
version into a pictorial channel. And there is this 
advantage in the latter standpoint, that, while the 
painter who dabbles in glass is ail along impatient of 
the restraints put upon him by the medium in which 
he is working, the glazier welcomes the pictorial ele¬ 
ment as one more source of interest added to his craft. 

Historically the craftsman’s point of view has 
determined the direction in which the art should be 

developed. The date at which stained glass was in¬ 
troduced into Europe we may leave to archaeologists 
to determine—each of whom is welcome to his 

theory on the 
subject. All 
that appears to 
be proved is 
that as early as 
the twelfth cen¬ 
tury the art ex¬ 
isted in France, 
if not in Eng¬ 
land, in a fair 
state of de¬ 
velopment. The 
probability is 
that no distinct 
period can be 
fixed at which 




it sprung- into existence. More likely it was the 
result of a species of evolution. The germ of the 
art was in the fact that glass was originally made 
in comparatively small pieces (there wei’e no large 
sheets of plate-glass in those days), and so it was 
necessary, in order to glaze any but the smallest 
opening, that these small pieces should be bound 
together in some way. It followed naturally, in days 
when art was a matter of every-day concern, the com¬ 
mon flower of wayside craftsmanship, that the idea 
should soon occur that if these pieces must be glazed 
together, they might as well be arranged in orna¬ 
mental fashion ; and presently the principles already 
loug in use in mosaic-work became grafted into 
the art of the glazier, which was after all only 
mosaic of a transparent kind. 

We trace the descent of glass-painting, then, not 
from pictorial art, but from mosaic, and begin the 
study of it as it began, with what is called mosaic 
glass. In very early windows the glass employed 
was always self-coloured; that is to say, the colour 
was given to the glass in its molten state, while it was 
in the pot, in fact, and for that reason it is tech¬ 
nically called “pot-metal/'’ I am not going to tire 
my readers with technicalities ; but it will be worth 
while to bear in mind this one term of “ pot-metal” 
in order to distinguish it from “ enamel ” colour, of 
which we shall have to speak by-and-by in connec¬ 
tion with those triumphs of glass-painting which 
marked the period at which the art began to decline. 
In mosaic glass the sheets of pot-metal or self- 
coloured material were broken up into fragments. 

much as the slabs of marble or opaque glass had 
already been broken up into tesserae; and these pieces 


of coloured glass were bound together by strips of 
lead, as the tesserae of a pavement or wall-picture 
are bound together by cement. The window is, in 
short, a mosaic of transparent glass. It has even 
been suggested that in some of the earliest glass the 
glazing is meant to imitate the tesserae of mosaic; 
but an examination of the examples brought for¬ 
ward in corroboration of that theory scai-cely affords 
evidence of such intention on the part of the first 
glass-painters. Rather, I imagine that the like pro¬ 
cedure led in each case to results that are not unlike. 
Doubtless the first stained windows were simply 
mosaics of tinted glass, the pieces framed, perhaps in 
wood or terra-cotta, or plaster, as they are to this day 
in the mosques of Egypt. Whether the first European 
examples were altogether unpainted, it is difficult to 
say. One finds very early patterns of clear glass— 
there are some at Salisbury Cathedral, and frag¬ 
ments in the clerestory of York Minster; but there 
is nothing to prove that these are earlier than other 
windows that are painted. So far as we can judge, our 
glazing seems, almost from the first, to have been sup¬ 
plemented by painting. The very early glass at St. 
Denis, and the still earlier at Augsberg, are painted. 

This painting, though it is, strictly speaking, 
enamel, is not the kind of enamel to which allusion 




was made just now in contradistinction to pot-metal 
—that is, an enamel colour used for colour’s sake; 
this was simply an opaque brown or blackish pig¬ 
ment, used to define the forms of figures and patterns, 
and to give minuter detail. 

The earliest method may be made clearer by an 
illustration. Suppose a glass-painter, working accord¬ 
ing to the principles obeyed in the thirteenth century, 
were to undertake to depict in stained glass the map 
of England, he would take for each county a piece of 
glass of the tint he wanted, and would shape it ac¬ 
cording to the outline of the county. These pieces 
he would lay side by side, like the parts of a puzzle, 
leaving just space enough between them for the core 
of the lead that was ultimately to bind them together. 
He would then paint round the edge of each a solid 
black line, so that the black edge of one piece coming 
against the black edge of the next would together 
form a bold divisional line between the counties; this 
would represent that portion of the glass which 
would afterwards be covered by the lead. With the 
same opaque colour he would go on to paint the lesser 
indentations in the coast and other border lines, the 
rivers, the mountains, the cities, and the names. This 
done, the puzzle would be taken asunder again, the 
glass would be put into a furnace, and burnt till 
the vitreous colour became fused with the glass, 
and finally it would be leaded together, the joints 
soldered, cement rubbed into the ci’evices between 
the glass and the lead, in order to make it firm and 
weather-tight; copper wires would be attached to the 
leads in places, and by these it would be tied to the 
iron bars let into the masonry for its support. 

Our first illustration explains itself. It will be 
seen that lines of latitude and longitude come 
in usefully as lead lines. The line of a river may 
also occasionally, for part of its length at least, be 
followed by the lead. The river Dart is turned to 
account in this way. The only necessary con¬ 
structional line that is at all noticeable, as not 
forming part of the drawing at all, is that extending 
horizontally from Portland Island to the line of 

For some centuries after the introduction of 
stained glass the only enamel used was this opaque 
brown or black, and it was employed solely to render 
the drawing of the forms. In the figure of a saint 
the head would be cut out of a piece of pinkish glass, 
and the features only painted upon it in the opaque 
enamel. In foliage a leaf would be cut from a sheet 
of green glass; the serrations and the veins would be 
painted. The colour of the drapery, in like manner, 
would be in the glass; the folds would be painted on 
it. The earliest glass-painters are sparing in their use 
of shadow, but what shading they used was just a thin 
smear of the same brown pigment on the surface of the 

glass. It was not till later that it occurred to them 
that the accidental inequality of the colour in a sheet 
of glass might be turned to account, and they picked 
their pieces where they could so as to get a gradation 
from light to dark without the aid of paint. 

Of existing early glass in England there remains 
more in the choir of Canterbury Cathedral than in 
any other church in this country—some of it very fine, 
and all of it representative of the glass of the period. 

In the design of a window, as of all surface decora¬ 
tion, the first thing that the artist has to determine 
is the manner in which 
he shall break up the 
surface before him. The 
early glass-painters were 
in the habit of breaking 
up a window in the fol¬ 
lowing manner. They 
began by marking off a 
broad border all round 
it, often as much as one- 
sixth part of its whole 
width. This consisted 
ordinarily of foliated 
ornament, emphasised 
at the edges by narrow 
strips of white and 
colour. Within this 
border they would then 
arrange a series of circles, 
quatrefoils, or other me¬ 
dallion shapes. These 
were, for the most part, 
occupied by figure sub¬ 
jects, the intervening 
spaces between them 
being most frequently 
filled with scroll-work, 
or in Continental glass 
by geometric patterns. A diaper of this kind is given 
on page 20; it is somewhat later in date than the glass 
under discussion, but it is rather more interesting than 
a purely geometric design. The scroll-work consisted 
naturally of the foliated ornament of that date, based 
usually upon the ti'efoil, and seldom approaching at 
all nearly to nature; but there is detail everywhere in 
Early English, and notably at Canterbury more variety 
than is commonly supposed. The subjects in the 
medallions are invariably small in scale, too small 
to my thinking, either for proportion or edification. 
Something is, indeed, done towards counteracting this 
defect by adopting extreme simplicity of composition, 
and by defining the figures clearly against a strong 
blue or ruby background; the bishop window given 
above is an instance of this isolation of the figure 
from its surroundings ; but still they are, for the most 

A bishop: from window in 



part, confused in effect. For example, in the small 
trefoil-headed lights of the triforium west of the choir 
transept at Canterbury the general effect of colour is 
most gem-like; the glass sparkles like gorgeous if 
barbaric jewellery ; hut the subjects are on far too 
minute a scale to be made out by mortals of ordinary 
patience, or—to speak accurately—impatience. In¬ 
deed, in the windows below, already referred to, which 
come comparatively near the eye, it is only the more 
conventionally familiar pictures of which one readily 
discovers the meaning, and those you recognise almost 
by anticipation. A certain confusion of effect is 
characteristic of thirteenth-century glass. 

There was a very obvious reason for the adoption 
of a small scale in early glass-work. At that time 
the use of the diamond was unknown, and the only 
resource of the glazier was to draw a red-hot iron 
point along the surface of the glass, which caused it 
to crack approximately in the direction he desired; 
and he had then to reduce it to the exact shape by 
laboriously chipping away its edges with a kind of 
iron hook, which was called a grozing-iron. Simple 
forms were thus almost a matter of course, and the 
smaller they were the less danger there was of break¬ 
ing them. Naturally the smallness of the pieces of 
glass employed encouraged, if it did not originate, 
the use of small figures. 

A certain confusion of effect may be considered as 
characteristic of thirteenth-century glass; and when 
we remember that most of this minute mosaic-work 
has, in the course of time, suffered more or less 
damage, necessitating further leading, which was 
often done by ignorant and careless glaziers, who 
have recklessly misplaced portions, and sometimes put 
in whole subjects upside down, we need scarcely be 
surprised that so much of the earliest glass is a riddle 
to the uninitiated. It presents, in fact, very often 
the effect of colour, and no more; but when it is such 
colour, colour is enough. 

When glass like this is framed in a circular 
opening, or in one of those beautiful wheel or rose 
windows such as we find in the transepts at Lincoln, 
for example, it has been compared to the patterns 
formed by the kaleidoscope. Nothing could have 
been further from the minds of the thirteenth-century 
glass-painters than any such mechanical device, for 
they were lavish of the thought they put into 
their art. Nevertheless, the result of their labour 
does, as it happens, charm us something in the same 
way that the toy amuses children—through the very 
vagueness of its form and the unintelligibility of 
its colour. 

At a certain point in the enjoyment of beauty we 
ask for a meaning in it, and feel the want of it if it 
is not there. And yet, in other moods, we yield to 
the charm of uncertainty, of mystery, of being at 

liberty to put our own interpretation upon the beauti¬ 
ful, and to let it sway us without caring to know why. 
Music stands high among the arts, but we do notask 
what it all means. 

A somewhat bolder kind of early glass is exempli¬ 
fied in the clerestory windows at Canterbury, where 
the space within the border is simply divided horizon¬ 
tally into two parts, in each of which sits a saint. 
But even this bolder work is not bold enough for its 


position. Really grand and imposing early figure work 
is to be found mainly in the French cathedrals. 

There was yet another kind of early glass which I 
have not mentioned, namely, those white or silvery 
pattern windows which are called grisaille. The term, 
though technical, explains itself. It is applied to all 
windows which consist for the most part of white or 
whitish glass, where the effect is delicate and grey, 
instead of being rich. There is a quantity of this 
kind of glass at Salisbury Cathedral, and much of 
it in very beautiful patterns. The example given is 
excellent in detail. But the best known windows of 
this character are the five long lancets occupying the 
end of the north transept at York Minster, which go 
by the name of the “ Five Sisters/’ From their posi¬ 
tion and size, as well as intrinsic excellence, they give 
as good an impression of this kind of work as could 
he wished. If the five sisters give you no gratifica¬ 
tion, it may safely be said that no early grisaille glass 
will be likely to interest you. Their size is such that 
the whole of the end of the transept presents itself as 
one huge screen of the most delicate and silvery glass. 
The design is with difficulty to be deciphered; in 
many places the painted part of the pattern has been 
obliterated by time; odd pieces of plain glass are 
mixed up with it here and there; and a perfect net¬ 
work of accidental lead lines (where it has been broken 
and mended) renders it most intricate. Parts of it 
almost suggest old cracked china on an impossible 
scale. Nevertheless, with all its imperfections, and 
in a manner owing to them, the effect is simply per¬ 
fect—something to be enjoyed rather than described 
or criticised. There is a legend concerning the origin 
of these windows which illustrates amusingly the 
popular ignorance on the subject of glass-painting. 
Dickens tells it in all iunoeence in his “ Nicholas 
Niekleby,” attributing the windows to a date at least 
a hundred years later than belougs to them, and 
speaking of them as “ richly stained,” though “ time 
has softened down the colours; ” whereas they are, 
and always must have been, delicately grey in tone, 
and time has only mellowed the tint, not made it a 
whit less rich than it was from the first. 

The story tells how five maiden sisters wrought 
the designs of these windows in tapestry, and to this 
day the verger repeats the tale. I ventured to suggest 
a doubt to him, but he looked at me reproachfully. 



“ more in sorrow than in anger/’ and I felt half 
ashamed of having thrown the shadow of my scep¬ 
ticism across his simple faith. 

The fact is that all of these designs are the 
natural and obvious outcome of the patterns that 
had been done before. Their parentage is written on 
the face of them. They are evidently designed by a 
practical glazier, and one who knew his trade too. 
No lady, maiden or other, unless she had served her 
apprenticeship at the glazier’s bench, could have de¬ 
signed such glassy glass as that. To any one who 
recognises this glass-like character of the windows it 
is wonderful how such a fable can ever have gained 

Wc have nothing in England to compare for 
quantity, and therefore for effect, with the early glass 
to be found in the French cathedrals. It is not 
generally understood how very greatly the effect of 
glass depends upon its abundance, or rather upon the 
absence of any plain windows in its vicinity. Every 
single ray of light that penetrates into a building 
excepting through the stained glass itself does injury 
to the effect of what coloured glass is there. We 
seldom see glass in its perfection—in England scarcely 
ever. For the most part we have to form our esti¬ 
mate of windows under conditions which render it 
impossible for any one but an artist of experience to 
appreciate them fairly. It is far worse than if we 
were called upon to judge a picture without its frame. 
It is more as if we were asked to appreciate a few dis¬ 
sonant chords of music without knowing the harmony 
which they go to build. Only a musician could in the 
least apprehend that; and only an expert can at all 
appreciate an isolated fragment of stained glass with 
light reflected out of it from all sides. You see and 
admire the beauty of the windows at Strasburg, pro¬ 
bably without realising how much their beauty is due 
not only to the circumstance that there is no white 
light, but to the fact that the red sandstone of the 
cathedral reflects so little light. The windows are 
seen absolutely at their best. 

To be impressed with the grandeur of early coloured 

glass we must go to Chartres, Le Mans, or Bourges. 
Each of these cathedrals is a perfect treasure-house of 
jewels—not any of them of the purest water, but 
collectively as gorgeous as that Indian jewellei-y where 
stones are precious, not according to intrinsic value, 
but for their colour and effect. There is somethin" 1 
barbaric about the brilliancy of this early mosaic, some¬ 
thing that perhaps belongs to Byzantine origin. The 
figures are always rude, often grotesque; the design 
is wanting in proportion, the detail lacks grace; 
but the colour, where it has escaped restoration, is 
splendid, and there is commonly a dignity about the 
larger figures, for all their faults of drawing, that is 
little short of majestic. 

It is worth a journey to Chartres and back just 
to spend a summer’s afternoon in the cathedral, its 
solemn aisles deserted by all but a few silent wor¬ 
shippers, no verger to hurry you on and vulgarise the 
whole impression, magnificent architecture, and all 
around windows worthy of it, not only in the choir 
but everywhere. Many a delightful hour may be 
spent there wandering about and puzzling out the 
patterns and the subjects of the medallion windows, 
till one is tired and glad to sit down. Then you may 
choose a resting-place whence on every side the glow 
of distant colour falls softly on the senses; or one 
may contemplate in peace the grand array of saints in 
the clerestory, or the still grander kings and priests 
that look down from the transept windows. 

To sit before such colour is to be soothed and 
satisfied. I remember hearing of a child who sat for 
the first time in his life in some great church, awed 
by the splendour of the glass before him, when all 
at once the organ burst into music, and it seemed to 
him, he said, as if it was the “window that spoke.” 
I am reminded of that story almost as often as I 
see any early glass. It impresses me always, as 
the music of the organ does, with its dignity, its 
richness, its remoteness from every day. They seem 
to me to strike the same deep chord. Each seems 
to belong to the other, and both to the solemnity of 
the church. Lewis F. Day. 


O F all articles in domestic use, the most direct in 
its end—and still more direct and simple in the 
means—is the familiar knocker. This primitive sim¬ 
plicity and directness afford an admirable opportunity 
for calling out in its most elementary form the true 
artistic treatment ; and a finished artist might not 
disdain the problem of working out a genuine and 
perfect knocker, which might stand the test of being 

tried by genuine artistic standards. Yet the more 
simple the subject the more difficult the task. We 
could fancy Mr. Ruskin himself illustrating, in a 
very agreeable manner and in his choicest language, 
his most favourite doctrines by an eloquent and 
judiciously-made knocker. As it is, fancy has run 
wild in the fantastic varieties of this useful adjunct 
to the door, which, like Shakespeare’s cat, is necessary 



though not altogether “ harmless ”—as the medical 
student teaches us. Deformity and eccentricity, 
as well as beauty, have run riot in their varied 
shapes. The old museums, where elegant iron-work 
is displayed, show us many ingenious and even 

astonishing patterns; 
while every city has 
its display of mean and 
even hideous things 
after a conventional 
model, from the trim 
and attenuated brass 
thing on the lean green 
door of the country 
town, to the weak 

OLD-FASHIONED STRENGTH. ‘ high-ai't attempt. 

It will be seen 
how closely the artistic and the useful functions 
of the knocker are united, and how, where the func¬ 
tion of knocking is best and most conveniently 
accomplished, the more artistic will be the effect. 
A heavy, highly-wrought knocker, it would be sup¬ 
posed, would do its function best, yet in practice 
it is found that it is often difficult to bring such 
down with effect on the knob, and that the operator 
has to exert himself to supply the extra power. On 
the other hand, though prompt and free in action, 
the mean brass knocker will only furnish a sort of 
tapping, pert and prompt enough, but scarcely suffi¬ 
cient to rouse attention. Then a huge massive ball 
will fall with a hollow, sepulchral “ thud,” waking 
a solemn funereal echo through the mansion, yet un¬ 
certain and confused in sound. Again, the too free 
knocker, where the leverage is abundant, falls with 
the sharp stroke of a ram, and almost alarms the 
house. These various effects are owing to deficient 
construction, and where there is deficient construc¬ 
tion the artistic effect is bad, but where the artistic 
part is good we shall be certain to have a good article. 

The points to be aimed at are, first, that the 
knocker shall move freely, and yet be securely affixed 
to the door; secondly, that the stroke should be 
effective and properly modulated. The artist must 
keep these matters in view if he would succeed; and 
it could be shown by a very few considerations how 
even attention to that matter of sound or percussion 
will help him. The striking portion of the knocker 
is generally made to fall upon a knob either screwed 
in specially or joined to the upper part by two meagre 
descending arms. Now, here is the radical defect— 
the making two portions of what should be one 
whole; and the cause too of those diversities of 
sound which are so astonishing in the family of 
knockers. The artist finds himself cramped by this 
division and these awkward elements. Further, the 
common treatment—of an economical kind, too—is 

to deal with the “ knocking ” portion instead of the 
“ knocked ” as the most important; and these two 
radical defects are the cause of the meagre and ineffi¬ 
cient result. If we assume that there must be a sort 
of solid base or plaque fixed to the door, to which 
the knocker and its knob should be attacbed, we 
shall start with a new condition of things, offering 
room for a secure mechanical arrangement, and giving 
the artist opportunity for artistic treatment. This 
shield or plaque would be affixed by screws all round, 
and supply a good striking surface, and would of 
itself give a dignity to the various forms of knockers 
now attempted, and which now appear so poor and 
precarious in their hold. Thus we see occasionally a 
good old pattern reproduced with indifferent effect— 
a sort of plain iron “carrot” hanging by a loop, the 
very simplest and most primitive form. There is an 
ugly primeval baldness about this; but if it were 
furnished with the plaque described it would assume 
a different air. This is all that is wanting, also, in 
the two examples of good old knockers reproduced 
on this page. 

Nearly all the existing patterns, if thus tested by 
these simple elementary principles, would be found to 
fail, mechanically and artistically. What we have 
called the “ county-town brass knocker” has no weight 
or substance, and, working on a pin, soon gets loose 
and awry. The hand holding a substantial garland 
or wreath of iron flowers lias no concentration of 
percussion, as Dr. Johnson might say, it being so 
heavy all round that it does not knock conveniently. 
The back of the hand displayed, and holding a large 
iron, is another shape, and so heavy that it almost 
adheres to the knob, and works 
as stiffly as possible. There is one 
favourite pattern—no doubt con¬ 
sidered of pleasing artistic effect: 
a smiling face, with iron lappets 
descending one on each side, and 
meeting on the chin, where the 
knocking is performed. A popular 
“ high-art ” knocker consists of a 
simple oval ring, nicely bronzed, 
and which works from a ring—a 
feeble, inoffensive thing, which 
works as feebly as it looks. It is 
extraordinary what high favour 
these time-honoured and invari¬ 
able patterns have enjoyed; and 
it must be said they have the merit of being in 
strict harmony with the feebly-conceived doors and 
doorways, and the poor iron-work of modern days. 
Finally, there is the handsome brass knocker, which 
stands out in a sort of crook, and has such satisfactory 
leverage that a vindictive or excitable person, too long 
delayed entrance, can batter to the alarm of the whole 



street. This engine works up and down on a perfect 
hinge, which, again, is screwed into the door, and 
fixed by a nut behind. But such invite the thief or 
the medical student, and can he wrenched off with a 
slight twist. If the owner wishes to retain this orna¬ 
ment, it must be carefully unscrewed and taken into 
the house every night. This elaborate trouble is 
fatal to the idea of simplicity. It has a lanky, pre¬ 
carious air; the long screw which has to go through 
the door is sure to be bent and become unserviceable. 

Yet in some of the older London houses dating 
from the middle of the last century there are to be 

found excellent specimens : 
in Berkeley and Cavendish 
Squares, in Soho, and other 
districts. In the former 
of these squares there is a 
door and doorway well con¬ 
ceived, with florid iron-work 
on each side, terminating 
in capital and graceful 
torch-extinguishers, sound 
railing work, and a good 
honest knocker in keeping. 
It is placed low down, so 
that it forms a sort of centre for the panelling, 
and the door seems to be designed for it and 
it for the door. One conceives the idea, as one 
stands before it, of its properly awakening echoes 
through the great hall within—passing beyond the 
door at the end, downwards and upwards, giving 
solemn, yet not noisy, notice of the arriving guest. 
It is simply two semicircles descending from the 
top and meeting in a heavy boss which forms a 
knob, and moving freely in another boss above— 
all supported on a plaque. The whole is a plain, 
honest iron thing that would knock and has knocked 
for generations without needing repair. Such a 
knocker might be taken as the basis of artistic treat¬ 
ment. It is as secure as the Monument; no spoiler 
or “ wrencher ” could remove it, or, if he succeeded, 
he could only take away a worthless ring of iron; 
though, indeed, only a professional workman could do 
this—the bulk of the article would remain attached 
to the door. 

It is amusing to see how the well-meant efforts at 
being artistic have succeeded in being as inartistic as 
possible. The idea of the face with the knocker to 
hammer on the chin is prompted by the same feeling 
that portrays a recumbent lion in rich colours on the 
hearthrug. There is something disagreeable in the 
notion of a chin being, under any conditions, susceptive 
of such harsh treatment. The idea, too, of a garland 
being used to hammer with is surely discordant, even 
though that garland move in the grasp of an iron 
hand screwed to the door. It is a well-known law of 

treatment that such devices are false to art, and to be 
avoided. There are umbrella stands, highly popular, 
where the rail which supports the umbrellas and sticks 
is made out of the likeness of a snake winding- graceful, 
and whose head and tail meet. The hand holding the 
big ball, too, is utterly disagreeable and ineffective, 
even for its suggesting the round-about process of one 
hand taking hold of another hand which again holds 
the ball, and so producing the knock. It is seldom 
that the idea of making portions of the living things 
do duty as mechanical agents pleases the eye. It 
may be admitted, however, that a good old pattern is 
that of the lion’s head holding the ring of the knocker 
in his mouth ; and the illustration on this page re¬ 
presents a treatment of living form so harmoniously 
developed that the designer is to be congratulated 
on producing a piece of creditable and original work. 
This knocker adorns the door of the house in which a 
much respected tragedian resides, Mr. William Cres- 
wick, who has so long and ably sustained Shake¬ 
spearian roles on the stage. Mr. Creswick’s nephew 
designed the knocker. 

Before artistic treatment can be entered on, the 
first point is to ascertain the correct and proper me¬ 
chanical construction. Till this be done, nothing is 
done. No amount of art could glorify or refine a 
common English window which slides up and down 
in pulleys, the mechanical arrangement being forced 
and bad. We find that a real knocker should be 
attached to a plaque which forms the knocked 
portion. Again, the percussion portions should be 
broad, and not formed by the meeting of two knobs, 
which latter gives a terrific rat-tat. By the first 
you knock at the door, and the knocking is on the 
door, and reverberates moderately. By the other 
principles alluded to there is little wear and tear, no 
starting of rivets or hinges. Given these elements, 
the artist goes to work and produces some of those 
simple but most effective objects so often adorning 
our museums, and well worthy of a place there. 

But the cultivation of the knocker can scarcely 
progress. The nimbler house-bell has supplanted it. 
Even where the knocker exists now, it submits in- 
gloriously to be helped by the tintinnabulary instru¬ 
ment that affords but little occasion for decorative 
treatment; and in a few years good knockers will be 
prized as relics, like the Scottish “ tirling-pins'’'’— 
or too often left to hang as neglected as ivy on 
the wall. Old-fashioned people sometimes paid no 
inconsiderable honour to the trusty metal herald 
which announces so many a wished-for friend. One 
particular member of the nobility, lately dead, loved 
his knocker so much—it was a handsome instru¬ 
ment of brass—that he was in the habit of taking 
it down from the door whenever he left town for 
a season. Peecv Fitzgerald. 





S KETCHING is popularly supposed to be the 
easiest thing- imaginable. One very frequently 
hears it said, “ I only wish I could sketch nicely, I 
shouldn’t care to be able to do more than that;” 
and the speaker no doubt thinks he has expressed 
a very modest wish, because he has never taken the 
trouble to consider what a sketch really is. 

The merest tyro in art is credited with the power 
of sketching, but the ability to make a good sketch 
is not nearly so general among artists as the outside 
world imagines. It is either a great natural gift, 
or else it is the result of much thought and long 
practice in art. How is a sketch produced? We 
are in a receptive mood, something strikes our 
fancy, out comes the sketch-book, and under the 
impulse of the moment we hurry upon paper an 
abstract or epitome, as it were, of the object, or 
group, or gesture, or incident, or effect whose rarity 
has aroused our attention, or whose beauty has 
kindled our admiration. 

There are, indeed, some gifted amateurs who, pro¬ 
perly speaking, have never studied art at all, and who 
sketch instinctively. Their sketches are often in¬ 
correct in form, untrue in colour, false in light and 
shade, revealing in all directions an utter absence of 
art-training, and yet they are full of character and 
spirited suggestiveness. These are the born sketchers, 
who seem as if they 
might do almost any¬ 
thing if only they 
would study; but for 
the most part they are 
dreadfully disappoint¬ 
ing ; their sketches 
never improve, as one 
would expect, for they 
are too indolent to 
get beyond this easy 
exercise of an inborn 
faculty. Sketching, 
indeed, is just this: 
the exercise of an in¬ 
born faculty that can 
neither be explained 
nor communicated; or 
it is the epitomising 
of an artist’s know¬ 
ledge of the things 
which he sketches, and 
a proof of his power 
to portray them. 


In all rapid sketching—and the very best sketch¬ 
ing is done almost at fever-heat—an instant abstract 
has to be made of the essential characteristics of 
things, and the result of this mental process has to 
be emphasised by the sketcher without the slightest 
hesitation; irresolution and indecision are fatal to all 
good sketching. A moment’s reflection will convince 
us that brain and eye and hand must be well trained 
to enable an artist at once to understand and spon¬ 
taneously to utter in his art-language the funda¬ 
mental features of anything; and, as a matter of 
fact, the power of correct and rapid sketching is 
seldom acquired by an artist except as the result 
of lengthened experience and hard work. This is 
evident if we recollect that a painter’s sketch is 
nothing less than a masterly suggestion of the 
appearance of some object, expressed by such very 
gimple means as a few emphatic strokes of the pencil 
or a few decided dashes of the brush. 

See, for instance, how De Wint has dashed in 
the masses which make up his sketch of “ London 
from Greenwich Park.” The original in the National 
Gallery is a beautiful harmony of greens and browns 
and silvery greys, and is painted in the most simple 
manner and with the fewest pigments possible— 
probably with three, certainly with not more than 
four colours—and yet everything is there : St. Paul’s 

(A Sketch by J. E. Coleman.) 



(A Sketch by De Wint.) 

rising above the distant city, with the far-off Middle¬ 
sex hills behind; the broad river with its shipping 
in the middle distance; and, nearer, the stately 
towers of the Seamen’s Hospital; and, nearer still, 
the dark foliage of the park. This is a sketch 
painted more with the head than with the fingers; 
and so is the charming sketch by one of our rapidly- 
rising: Anerlo-Roman artists—J. E. Coleman—which 
is an admirable specimen of what an artistic sketch 
should be. 

Amateurs are often anxious to acquire some 
special method of sketching, and are always trying 
to find out how professional painters work. A tale 
is told of a lady who, being introduced to that great 
master of water-colour manipulation, William Hunt, 
said to him, “ There is one thing I especially want 
to ask you, Mr. Hunt, and that is, how do you begin 
your sketches ? ” Hunt, it is said, scratched his vener¬ 
able head for a moment, and then characteristically 
replied, “Well, ma’am, I scarcely know; sometimes 
in one way, and sometimes in another/'’ And so it 
is with all genuine artists; they have no pet process, 
no set style of sketching, but are ever adapting their 
method to the requirements of the various subjects 
they sketch. Some things, indeed, are so transitory, 
so evanescent in their nature—such as effects of 
atmosphere, clouds, waves, the glow of sunrise and 
the glory of sunset, for example—that they have to 
be sketched, if sketched at all, in the readiest and 
quickest fashion that can be thought of: artists 
have to make use of all sorts of shorthand notes, 
and often have to sci’ibble their hasty sketches over 
with strange memoranda and hieroglyphics in order 
to recollect facts which, whilst the effect itself lasts, 
there is no time to indicate by form or colour. 

Turner was a notable instance of such sketching, 
as we see by many of his rough memorandum- 
sketches exhibited at the National Gallery. So 
earnest and eager a sketcher, indeed, was the great 
landscape-painter, that it is said sketches were found 

stowed away in his portfolios and note-books suffi¬ 
cient to give an average of one or two sketches for 
every day of the master’s long career. 

An illustration is given of one of Turner’s more 
elaborate sketches of “ Rome from Monte Mario,” 
which is now in the National Gallery. One sees 
how the master has gone straight at the important 
parts of the magnificent natural composition, and 
has got them done first of all, whilst his chosen 
effect—the broad shadow on the middle distance— 
was “on;” and how, satisfied with having secured 
that and the subtly delicate drawing and colour of 
the distant hills, he has been content merely to 
indicate the less characteristic parts of the plain, 
and to leave the foreground trees merely sketched 
in with a few firm and rapid strokes of his unerring 

As often as not, amateurs call a study “ a sketch.” 
Something that has been done quite slowly and 
carefully, something that shows to the trained eye 
of an artist that it is quite a laboriously minute 
record of facts of detail, the evident result of time 
and thought, is spoken of by amateurs as if it had 
been “dashed off” with playful ease, as, indeed, a 
clever sketch should be. 

An artist perhaps will be pardoned for remind¬ 
ing such persons that there are two ways in which 
painters who are in earnest study their art. First 
of all, we devote ourselves to the careful, thoughtful, 
accurate study of the forms and colours of all sorts of 
objects, in-doors and out-of-doors, doing our very best 
with all sorts of materials and in all kinds of methods 
to reproduce on paper, on panel, or on canvas the 
appearance of those forms and colours under every 
variety of effect of light and shade, concentrating 
every thought upon the work in hand, as if that, for 
the time, were the only work worth doing in the 
world, and returning day after day to our study until 
it is finished. By being “ finished ” artists do not 
mean that a drawing is neatly stippled and carefully 



smoothed and polished to the uttermost detail, but 
they consider any study in drawing or painting to 
be finished when careful comparison of it with the 
object studied assures them that no alteration and no 
additional labour can improve the essential likeness 
between the two. This is the more serious and the 
more necessary way iu which the painter studies his 
art. But by itself it is not enough to develop all his 
artist faculties. In order to store his memory with 
natural facts, in order to cultivate his taste, in order 
to intensify his powers of observation and analysis, 
in order to stimulate his imagination, an artist also 
diligently acquires the habit of rapid sketching. 

The only way to “ learn how to sketch ” is 
thoughtfully and fearlessly to sketch anything and 
everything that comes in our way, aiming only, or 
chiefly, at getting general truths of form, colour, or 
effect, and often trying only for one sort of truth in 
each sketch. In beginning to learn to sketch, it is a 
matter of quite secondary importance wliat we sketch; 
the chief thing is to sketch something. It is the 
looking at things keenly enough and often enough to 
enable us to remember their special characteristics— 
which we cannot help doing, even though we do it 
unconsciously, whenever we try to sketch them— 
which stores our minds with a multitude of general 
and particular facts and effects of nature, and is the 
real art-training that we derive from the habit of 

Studies of natural effect of light and shade are 
particularly necessary, and it is in this that amateurs 
mostly fail. In a studio the lights and shadows are 
pretty constant, but out-of-doors, until habit has 
made us accustomed to nature’s vagaries, the ever- 
changing lights and swiftly-shifting shadows are 
sometimes little less than distracting. A sketcher 
looks up from his work and finds everything suddenly 
changed: objects which when he began to sketch 
were in deep shadow are now in bright sunshine, 
whilst other objects that lately were in full light 
are half veiled in shadow. The new effect may seem 
more picturesque than the old one, and may tempt 
the unwary sketcher to alter his sketch to suit the 
changed conditions of the scenery; but before he can 
possibly do so nature has arranged a third composi¬ 
tion of light and shade which very likely is more 
fascinating than either. What is to be done? Many 
a young sketcher thinks he will take the best features 
of each effect, and probably ends by getting no effect 
at all into bis sketch. It comes about something in 
this way. The amateur is sketching some scene in 
Wales or Scotland or Switzerland, some effect whose 
beauty has struck him, but which he has not 
experience enough to analyse. The mountain-back¬ 
ground opposite looks a beautiful blue mystery in 
which no particular details are discernible, but whilst 

he is trying to sketch this, all the slopes and 
precipices and water-courses of the mountain are 
suddenly revealed by a burst of sunshine, and, 
naturally enough, the artistic breadth of the past 
effect is forgotten, and he works enthusiastically to 
introduce all this additional beauty. The background 
finished, he turns his attention to the middle distance, 
to the tranquil lake that washes the bases of the 
grassy slopes and mirrors the bold buttresses of the 
mountain. Perhaps he has a half-recollection that 
under the original effect which prompted him to 
sketch, the background was broad and blue, the 
middle distance was in shadow, and only the fore¬ 
ground in light; but what of that ?—now the lake is 
certainly in full light, the shapes of the banks of 
reeds and tufts of rushes that fringe its margin and 
of the big boulder stones in the shallows are all 
distinctly visible in all the beauty of their local 
colour, and the sketcher thinks what a pity it would 
lie not to introduce these picturesque forms and 

(Fly J. hi. W. Turner.) 




(A Sketch by J. M. W. Turner.) 

charming contrasts of colour into his sketch. And 
now it is time to attend to the foreground. Spread 
out between him and the lake is a gorgeous carpet 
of purple heather, with patches of emerald turf and 
masses of golden bracken, and here and there groups 
of lichen-covered rocks. This, too, is now in broad 
light. The beautiful colours and interesting details 
of every sort are seen with the utmost distinctness, 
and of course he must omit nothing that would take 
away from the completeness of his picture; besides, 
hasn't he been advised to copy nature and paint 
“ exactly what he sees before him ” ? 

So our sketcher works on diligently for one, two, 
three, perhaps four hours, if he has had a good 
breakfast ; and all the while the sun is slowly 
movfng westward, and constantly changing all the 
lights and shadows on every object before him, to 
say nothing of the passing effects of the cloud- 
shadows. He conscientiously studies the details one 
by one, but it never occurs to him to pause in his 
labour of love and ask himself whether the effect on 
any object which he is painting at the moment is 
a suitable one, whether the distance, middle distance, 
and foreground are all, or any of them, under the 
same or a similar effect of light and shade as they 
were when the beauty of the composition first ex¬ 
cited his admiration and caused him to begin to 
sketch. At length he stands up to stretch his 

cramped limbs, and so gets his first look at his 
sketch as a whole. What a disappointment! Every¬ 
thing seemed so true, so effective, whilst he was 
bending over his work, whilst he was looking only 
at that part of the composition that he was actually 
painting, but now it all seems as flat, as tame, as 
lifeless as a Chinese picture. And so it is; and 
yet there is plenty of honest, conscientious work in 
it, and it is full of truths of detail, but there is no 
truth of effect: it is a painstaking series of studies, 
it is no sketch, as a painter understands the word. 

Artists are continually making rapid sketches of 
action, of colour, of effects of sunshine and shadow, 
of natural composition, well knowing that they will 
never be able to make any actual use of the great 
majority of their sketches. But they go on sketch¬ 
ing all the same, for they know by experience how 
invaluable the slightest honest sketch may be for 
reference or suggestion, and they remember that the 
merest “ scribble ” done from nature has frequently 
been the starting-point of a famous picture. 

What a grand picture, for example, one imagines 
Turner might have made out of the accompanying 
sketch, which many a visitor to the National Gallery 
has befoi’e now passed contemptuously by as “only 
a scribble of black and white chalk on grey paper." 
Yes, only a scribble, if you like, but what a scribble ! 
and how many men are there who could do one any- 



thing like it ? Every artist knows that had Turner 
attempted more “ execution ” or definition of detail 
in those five minutes, or less, whilst he was watch¬ 
ing that boat come in and working at fever-heat of 
artistic excitement, he would never have left us this 
masterly record of all that momentary life and move¬ 
ment on board the boat, in the stormy sky and in 
the tumbling sea. 

Sketching is a faculty to be acquired by training 
and practice; and, except to the gifted few, is not so 
easy after all. So it seems that the wish “ only to 
be able to sketch’'’ is not quite so modest a one as 
at first it seems. But this will be bad news only 
to those persons who “ only want to sketch,” and 
will deter no earnest art-student from the attempt. 
Rather the contrary will be the case, and the know¬ 
ledge that the faculty of sketching does not come to 

all artists as naturally as some outsiders suppose will 
stimulate all but the indolent and faint-hearted to 
lose no time in beginning to cultivate the practice. 
The best of us must crawl before we can walk, and 
must “ feel our feet under us ” before we can venture 
to run—and, artistically speaking, sketching is some¬ 
times running at very full speed—-and therefore none 
of us should allow ourselves to be surprised or dis¬ 
couraged if our early sketches are but feeble affairs, 
which we are reluctant to show to anybody, “ espe¬ 
cially to an artist.” But that last idea which 
amateurs indulge in is quite a mistake. Artists, as 
a rule, are the very persons to whom they need not 
mind exhibiting their crude attempts; for, knowing 
themselves the difficulties of art, all true artists are 
sure to be the most sympathetic and least critical 
of critics. Barclay Day. 


ness i 

1 IE circular announcements 
by which good society 
in France and in Italy 
announces the betrothal 
of a daughter of the 
house have never been 
used amongst ourselves; 
nor has the faire part 
diich brings from all living relations 
f the deceased the news of a death, 
h the order of relationship among 
senders set forth with due minute- 
in due precedence, ever formed 
insular etiquette. The nearest 
approach to the latter form of missive exists 
in the “ mortuary cards ” which, for some 
reason, are popular in those strata of society which 
are not affected by the subtler unwritten laws of 
fashion. Valentines, revived some years ago for a 
season or two, have long been banished from the 
circles of the polite; wedding-cards have disappeared 
so long that it is not now needful to explain their 
absence in the marriage advertisements; it is no 
longer necessary for the happy pair to inflict by post 
wedges of cake upon their friends; and altogether 
missives of the circular kind have fallen into complete 
disuse, with one exception. The Christmas card is 
altogether rampant and supreme. By what caprice 
this invention, which until lately has been signalised 
by every possible variety of bad taste in design and 
colour, has been welcomed with so wild an enthusiasm, 
it is impossible to say. Some people may remember 
the dawn of the Christmas card; sooth to say it was 

a vulgar 

ittle work of art, with lace paper round its 
but the sentiment of the time was preserved by 
means of the snowy spray, the robin, aud the cluster 
of hollyberries which generally formed the motif of 
the design. But the tyranny of the Christmas cai’d 
was not then established; we might send highly- 
coloured robins to our friends at the festive season, 
or we might abstain; the Briton’s birthright of free¬ 
dom was not infringed in this matter. Nor was it 
until the bird, the snow, and the holly had been long 
superseded that men and women of adult powers and 
civic rights were constrained to buy Christmas cards 
in considerable quantities, whether they would or no, 
and to impart them to equally enslaved and reluc¬ 
tant friends and acquaintances. 

The law having gone forth, however, for such 
time as it shall last, it is desirable that the designs 
and colours of our missives should be improved. 
Perhaps only an absolutely fanatical anti-aesthetic 
person would deny the recent general spread of 
better taste in the daily life of English people, for 
every one else is agreed that the details of houses, 
the trilies of social existence, and the decorative 
and decorated adjuncts of our homes are all now 
expressive of reviving taste. Of course the thing was 
not to be done at once; good colour, for instance, 
may become the fashion, but immediately the paro¬ 
dies of good colour crowd the shop windows, and the 
tyrant builders devise caricatures of the dados and 
tintings dear to the artistic—parodies which are ten 
times more hideous than the old and familiar and 
therefore unobservable offences. Such little draw¬ 
backs rather emphasise than contradict the general 



improvement; and taste being on the increase, there 
is no reason why Christmas cards, among other things, 
should not be made a source of positive pleasure by 
reason of their beauty. To help on this end two 
short exhibitions have been held during the season, 
one at the Dudley Gallery, which was a repetition of 
an already successful trial, and a second one, on a 
very large scale, in the rooms of the Suffolk Street 
Gallery, under the auspices of Messrs. Hildesheimer 
and Faulkner. The collection was stimulated by 
prizes of such magnitude that they sounded some¬ 
what disproportionate to the kind of competition, but 
of course the attraction to compete was exceedingly 
powerful, and the result has been a show which we 
should take as widely representative of the amateur 
talent of the country. That some who are artists by 
profession designed Christmas cards for the occa¬ 
sion is true, but the mass of the 1,150 drawings 
were plainly the work of amateurs—of women with 
a little taste and much leisure, and of men of mild 
ambition with time on their hands. The exhibition, 
indeed, might be made the text for an instructive 
homily upon the faults and promises of amateur 
taste in England. Inasmuch as a large number 
of the designs were merely drawings like other 
drawings — landscapes of ordinary exhibition size 
and character, and studies of flowers—they call for 
no special remark, having the familiar failings and 
merits of their class ; but where the competitive 
labour had been undertaken as an exercise in decora¬ 
tive art par excellence , more interesting attempts were 
made. The really beneficent influence of the School 
of Art Needlework was here everywhere apparent. 
It has taught colour and decorative composition to 
Englishwomen as nothing else could have taught 
them. Another most felicitous influence is, of course, 
that of Japanese art. A large number of the cards 
exhibited were mere plagiaristic copies of Japanese 
designs, or else more or less clever manipulations of 
Japanese colour ideas, or simply little drawings of 
groups of Japanese bric-a-brac , as it appears in an 
English drawing-room. Apart from all this there was 
a quantity of work which may be said to follow the 
Kate Greenaway manner at second-haud, and out¬ 
side again was the large and very vulgar and tawdry 
majority of the competing designs, of which nothing 
good can be said. Flaccid illustrations from Tennyson; 
rows of stippled heads of women or children, aiming 
at excessive prettiness, but achieving utter insipidity; 
simpering “ seasons ” by scores ; ambitious allegories 
of classic intention and great disproportion in figure¬ 
drawing—such competitive attempts were passed in 
great numbers by a very tolerant committee. It 
may be said, regretfully enough, that the really good 
specimens, showing decision of taste, individuality of 
choice, or charm of invention, were comprised within 

little more than a score. To the work of the chief 
prize-winners must be accorded the place of honour 
among these. Miss Alice Havers, successful in 
so many other branches of art, was at the head 
of the successful competitors, and bore off the prize 
of £200, her design being distinguished for its 
attractive grace. A number of prizes—no less 
than four—were carried off by another lady, Miss 
Victoria Dubourg, who displayed a striking talent 
in her uncommonly powerful realistic groups of 
flowers, vigorous in handling and noble in colour. 
These pictures, nevertheless—for such they were— 
could be considered as designs for Christmas cards 
only in a sense which would comprise any of the 
water-colour drawings in any exhibition. Mr. E. K. 
Johnson obtained the second prize of £150 with his 
fresh and real “ Single Figures—Winter Scenes/ 5 
and Mr. George Marks and A. Glendenning followed 
in the next degree. Mr. Couldery, whose kittens 
won the delighted praise of Mr. Ruskin several years 
ago, and who is one of the very few artists who are 
able to catch some of the subtler characteristics of 
a kitten’s face, received three awards for groups of 
his favourites. The first thirty prizes were awarded 
by the promoters, according to the judgment of Mr. 
Millais, R.A., Mr. Marcus Stone, A.R.A., and Mr. 
Storey, A.R.A. j and seventy of somewhat smaller 
value were given by Messrs. Hildesheimer and 
Faulkner upon their own choice, in addition to which 
seventy-four drawings have been bought by them. 
Of course the great bulk of the designs were un¬ 
rewarded, even in this most generous arrangement, 
and must therefore remain in the incognito of com¬ 
petition . 

Among these, and altogether distinct and distin¬ 
guished in style from the hundreds of designs sur¬ 
rounding them, were two or three drawings of single 
figures surrounded by broad bands of colour and gold 
by way of frame or enclosure, the splendid eye of a 
peacock’s feather coming in by artistic accident to 
give accent to the whole. Some hint had been caught 
from Mr. Whistler as to vagueness of merely im¬ 
pressionary tints, but any resemblance to that artist’s 
works stopped there. The drawing of the figures 
was excellently indicated, the little glimpses of 
background landscapes were full of poetic beauty, 
and the skill of the fortuitous-seeming passages 
of surrounding colour was remarkably felicitous. 
These fine and original little works, though not 
awarded prizes, were among the designs bought by 
the promoters. Several landscapes of good quality 
shared in the common disadvantage of lacking any 
kind of distinctive appropriateness, and the same 
may be said of less meritorious works — as, for 
instance, a curiously weak and undramatic series of 
large monochrome drawings in illustration of the 



“Idylls of tlie King’ 5 and of others of the same 
poet’s works; also a large number of water-colour 
landscapes of unequal value, and such widely inappro¬ 
priate and uusuggestive designs as a view of two 
huge and hideous river steamers on the Mississippi, 
sending forth volumes of black smoke. Surely no 
one will feel his heart much cheered at Yule-tide by 
the receipt of a friendly token bearing this device. 
We have no wish to return to the robin and the holly 
spray, or to confine the efforts of designers to snow¬ 
balling subjects, but really Mississippi steamers are 
rather too far afield. We would require a Christmas 
card to be gay at all events; and very gay in then- 
pretty fancifulness were the set of drawings marked 
“ Dresden China.” The idea is not new, having had 
its origin in the inventive brain of Andersen, but it 
was here very brightly rendered. The china figures 
perched together on a bracket have entered into 
serious complications with one another in the magical 
hours after midnight. A lovely shepherd and a gentle¬ 
man of the court in a brown coat both love a lady 
in a pink hoop; an inveterate duel results, and the 
brown gentleman falls headlong from the bracket, 
run through the heart. The Dresden china has hardly 
time to whisk back to the attitudes and the pedestals 
of every day before the housemaid, who is sure to be 
blamed for the breakage of the unhappy lover, enters 
with her morning broom. If we except the element of 
fan which the actions of these little figures expressed, 
we must pronounce the show of designs to have been 

absolutely empty of humour. It is scarcely necessary 
to say that some rather facile fun was attempted—a 
very long way indeed after Mr. du Maurier—in satire 
upon the “ aesthetics.” 

Among the very best of the many Japanese imita¬ 
tions or adaptations, special memorial should be made 
of “ Honest Penny’s ” studies of the designs and 
colours distinctive of the ware of the five provinces of 
Japan; each design was arranged into a comprehen¬ 
sive little composition of great beauty, and signed 
with the seal of its province. Another felicitous 
Japanese study was marked “ Sun and Moon Series,” 
and consisted of very brilliant but subtle passages of 
blue, silver, and gold in delicate designs ; and another 
still, marked “Juno,” showed a peacock composition 
of uncommon elegance and skill, arranged in gold and 
silver on grounds of finely aerial blue. “ Decorative ” 
was the motto upon another very lovely study in 
Japanese colour and design. A little group of “ Clas¬ 
sical Studies ” were marred by the weak drawing 
of the nude, but the landscape distances were ex¬ 
ceedingly brilliant and luminous; and a strongly 
poetical effect was compassed by “ Self-Help ” in 
“Animals, Birds, aud Fish;” the creatures dis¬ 
ported themselves in a lovely twilight against an 
enormous rising moon. 

Taking this curious collection as a whole, it may 
be decided that the thousand designs which composed 
it contained materials for a really valuable and very 
beautiful little album of about twenty cards. 


OU ask me, my friend, why Como is ever 
in my thoughts. It was at Como that, in 
my most happy youth, I tasted the first 
real enjoyment of life. I saw stately 
palaces, beautiful villas, elegant pleasure-boats, a 
splendid theatre. I thought myself in the midst 
of the luxuries of fairyland. I saw the urchin, too 
-—young Love—in the act of letting fly an arrow 
pointed at my breast; but I, a maiden fancy free, 
avoided the shaft, and it fell harmless. After the 
lapse of years, the genius that presides over every 
destiny led me again into this delicious region, where 
I tasted the delights of friendship with the charms 
of nature; I listened with deeper joy than ever to 
the murmur of waves on that unrivalled shore. One 
day I was walking with agreeable company round 
one of the most beautiful villas near the lake. In 
the shadow of a wood I again saw the youthful 
god slumbering. I approached him. He awakened, 
looked at me, and, recognising her who had con¬ 

temned his power, sprang up suddenly, intent on 
swift revenge. He pursued me; the arrow sped once 
more, and but by a hair’s breadth failed to reach my 
heart.” Thus, in the phrases of her time, and with 
figures of speech which remind us in their artificiality 
of the figures which she drew with her pencil, con¬ 
fessed the gentle Angelica Kauffman to two affairs 
of the heart. Whether it was the same swain who 
on both occasions preferred his suit can hardly be 
gathered, though it might be inferred from this 
recital of the episode ; but the faithfulness which 
in a fickle world could have remained proof against 
feminine fascinations during the long interval which 
elapsed between Angelica’s first and second visits to 
Como would surely, one might think, have met with 
its reward. Nor were the admirers of Angelica so 
rare as to lend probability, on other grounds, to the 
identity of the suit at Como, which, however, whether 
preferred by two persons or by only one, came to 
nought. Angelica bad, indeed, many admirers during 



the first half of her long life. Godwin, Shelley’s 
father-in-law, may not have been affected by her 
charms, as some one has alleged, but as Mr. Kegan 
Paul—-Godwin's biographer—has denied. There can 
be little doubt, however, that Dance, Fuseli, and Sir 
Joshua himself—all three her fellow-members of the 
Royal Academy when it was founded in 1769—were 
deeply smitten. 

Sir Joshua the fair artist had visited when she 
came to England in 1765, and she had, of course, 
admired his distinguishing grace. With a woman's 

alone, and, indeed, it invented for the occasion one 
of its most marvellous stories. One evenin'?—so the 
gossips said—Angelica took her station in a con¬ 
spicuous box at one of the Roman theatres, accom¬ 
panied by the two artists who were enamoured of her. 
She sat between the two adorers, and, while her arms 
were folded before her in front of the box over which 
she leaned, she managed to press a hand of both, so 
that each imagined himself the cavalier of her choice. 
Of course so neat a story could not be let alone, and 
it was speedily improved upon, until Angelica was 


(From a Portrait Painted by Herself.) 

receptiveness she regarded his art, and certainly 
imitated it with effect if she really painted, without 
his considerable help, the magnificent portrait of 
himself "which is credited to her brush, and which 
was shown at an Old Master Exhibition at Burling¬ 
ton Flouse several winters ago. To Sir Joshua she 
also sat, and in his sitters' book her name is some¬ 
times entered by him as Miss Angelica, and at other 
and tenderer times as Miss Angel, the name which 
Miss Thackeray adopted for the delightful novel in 
which—illustrating once more the saying that truth 
is stranger than fiction—she told the story of the 
artist's life. Fuseli and Dance Angelica had met in 
earlier days at Rome, and already they were at her 
feet. Gossip, with a touch of malice in it, could not 
let a maiden, so lovely and so much admired, quite 

credited with having guided the arms of the rival 
lovers round her waist at the same time. This, how¬ 
ever, was all idle talk; and if of this trio there was 
one who was inclined to play with the feelings of 
others—to be, in fact, a flirt—it was, we imagine, 
Henry Fuseli himself. Angelica had learned better 
things from her mother—a woman of devoted piety, 
dead, alas ! before her daughter had most need of her 
guidance and support; and those lessons of sweetness, 
modesty, and dignity acquired in her early childhood, 
that devotion to duty she practised when, as a young 
maiden, she rose in the depth of a German winter to 
trudge for three hours along a country road, nearly up 
to the knees in snow, to hear her Sunday Mass, were 
really never obliterated from her heart, either when 
she was the successful artist and the lion of London 



seasons, or the betrayed woman of maturity and the 
lonely lady of advanced age. Her life, when it was 
gay, had need of all the strength religion could 
give, and, when it was wrecked, of all the consola¬ 
tion; and this strength and tins consolation, if we 
may judge from words and acts which infer more 
than they actually declare, were abundantly hers. 

Whether Reynolds actually proposed to Miss 
Angel, as some say, or whether it was Miss Angel 
who was “dying' for Sir Joshua,” as Smith declares; 
whether Nathaniel Dance really offered her his heart 
before he gave his hand to his Yorkshire heiress with 
nearly twenty thousand a year; whether the “Prin¬ 
cipal Hobgoblin Painter to the Devil,” in other words, 
Henry Fuseli, who could swear in eight languages, 
and who was wont to boast in regard to the fair sex 
that he “could do very well without them”—whether 
he would fain in his heart have become the civilised 
husband of Angelica, if only she had given him a 
chance—all these things are a matter of conjecture. 
But this is certain, that Angelica was fascinating 
both in her looks and in her manners, and that her fas¬ 
cinations made themselves felt. “ She was a slender, 
well-proportioned woman,” says Miss Clayton, “ of 
about the middle height. It could not be said that 
she was a perfect beauty, but she was singularly 
attractive. Pier face was a Greek oval, which in¬ 
clines to the round; the complexion, more that of the 
brunette than of the blonde, was fresh and clear; the 
features regular and delicately cut; the eyes were 
large, and of a deep blue, sparkling, full of archness, 
innocence, and purity; her glances were eloquent and 
strangely captivating. The mouth was exceedingly 
pretty, and always smiling. It is no great wonder 
that she liked to paint her own portrait, for she 
made a charming model.” It is not only in her 
avowed portraits that her lineaments appear, for she 
was gifted with so little perception of character that 
they were repeated in all the women and saints 
and nymphs she ever drew. “ Her heroines are 
herself,” said Fuseli, adding, “and while suavity of 
countenance and alluring graces shall be able to 
divert the general eye from the sterner demands of 
character and expression, can never fail to please.” 
Charmed by Angelica, Lady Wentworth, who met 
her abroad, invited her to England, where she came 
in the June of 1765, and took up her residence with 
her friend in Charles Street, Berkeley Square. Here 
acquaintances and patrons gathered round her rapidly 
enough. The Queen and the Duchess of Brunswick, 
the King’s sister, sat to her; the Princess of Wales 
visited her studio, setting an example which all 
“society” followed; and Angelica was declared to be 
“ the most fascinating woman in Europe.” “ Such 
honour was surely never done painter before,” she 
wrote to her father, the good John Joseph Kauffman, 

an artist himself, who shortly afterwards joined his 
daughter in London in a house of her own in Golden 
Square. It was in that house that the tragedy of her 
life occurred. 

Among the many men whom Angelica met in 
society was one who was introduced to her as the 
Count Frederic de Horn, but who was really a 
mere villain, personating the distinguished Swede 
whose name he assumed. His real name was 
Burckle; under many aliases he had perpetrated 
frauds in various continental towns, and he had 
already been at least once married—to a German 
girl, whom lie had heartlessly deserted. What his 
origin was does not appear; some say he had been 
the real Count Frederic de Horn’s valet; but, be 
that as it may, he was the master of manners which 
—making allowances for foreign birth and breeding 
-—gave colour, or, at any rate, did not prove fatal to 
his pretensions. He was handsome, agreeable, ap¬ 
parently educated, and rich, as became the high title 
that he bore. Alas for Angelica ! whom nature had 
made pretty, and whom art was making rich ! Neither 
the face nor the fortune was lost on the adventurer. 
He came, lie saw, and he conquered—conquered the 
woman who had refused the offers of eligible men 
who might have made her happy, to be linked 
with a scoundrel who could not give her a home, 
or a heart, or a name. 

A tangled web, indeed, did the sham Count weave, 
“ when first he practised to deceive ” Angelica. She 
should be a countess—an ambassadress even—as his 
wife, beloved, honoured, and happy. But she must 
consent to a private marriage—private even to her 
father. And still Angelica suspected nothing, so 
ingenious was his pleading. Flis life, he said, was 
in danger; the Swedish court was about to demand 
his person from the British Government; but if, he 
urged, she, as his wife, interceded for him with the 
Royal Family, he would be saved and secure, for 
“ they would never suffer her husband to be unjustly 
punished; ” and she, yielding to the most tender of 
infatuations, took him at his word. It was probably 
in the old Catholic chapel still standing in Warwick 
Street that the ceremony of marriage was performed 
-—the bride’s very celebrity probably enabling her to 
dispense with any inconvenient witnesses or attesta¬ 
tions. The truth, however, could not be long hidden. 
Whispers of the marriage got about; John Joseph, 
the most devoted of fathers, began to fear that 
something was wrong, and Angelica, throwing her¬ 
self at his feet, confessed she was a bride. The 
supposed Count grew uneasy and irritable, and he 
urged Angelica to fly with him from English shores. 
Fortunately she refused, and also defeated a plot by 
which he meant to remove her by force. Rumours 
of the marriage reached the Queen, and Her Majesty 



invited to Buckingham Palace Angelica and “ her 
husband, the Count/'’ To that individual the invita¬ 
tion gave no pleasure, and he postponed its acceptance 
until the real Count de Horn arrived at Court, and 
was received on all hands with congratulations on his 
marriage. That was the beginning of the end. The 
Queen herself is said to have borne to Angelica the 
bitter news that she had been duped, and a little later 
came the yet bitterer news that she had never been 
a wife. Death was the punishment the law then 
dealt to bigamy, but Angelica, still tender, would not 
prosecute. “ He has betrayed me,” she said, “ but 
God will judge him—let me never hear his name 
again.” Burckle escaped from England early in 1768, 
carrying with him some three hundred of Angelica’s 
pounds, and probably she heard little or nothing of 
him again, except, about eight years afterwards, that 
he was dead. 

No doubt Angelica thought that life had no more 
love or joy in it for her, henceforth and for ever. But 
time is a great healer, and so is labour; and as the 
years passed, Angelica worked harder and harder, 
producing those almost innumerable pictures, num¬ 
bers of which were engraved by Bartolozzi, Ryland, 
and Burke, and sixty of which were published 
by that great print publisher, Alderman Boydell. 
Moreover, she decorated rooms, as at Frogmore, and 
painted ceilings, as in the Council Room of the Royal 
Academy. Soon a new anxiety took the place of the 
old sorrow in Angelica’s heart—her father’s health 
began to break down; and the new anxiety gave birth 
to a new love. The father, who felt his life ebbing 
away, feared to leave his daughter alone in the world, 
even at the age of forty; hence he advised her to 
consider the suit, long urged, of a Venetian artist, 
settled in London, and an Associate of the Royal 
Academy—Antonio Zucchi-—a fresco - painter. In 
1781 Angelica became his wife; and, five days after 
the wedding, she left England for ever, in company 
with her husband and her father. By that time, as 
Miss Clayton tells us, “ anguish of mind as well as 
advancing years had told on the fresh, delicate beauty 
of Angelica. The frank, magnetic smile, the rose 
tints, the gay laughter in the bright blue eyes, the 
dimpling charm had vanished.” Her portrait, painted 
by herself about this time, shows the alterations, 
and has been described as that of “ a woman still 
in the bloom of life, but destitute of all brilliancy 
of colouring, with an expression grave and pensive 
almost to melancholy.” Ten or a dozen years later 
she painted yet another autograph portrait. “ What 
a sad and weary old face”—again to quote Miss 
Clayton, “ how full of resignation but little removed 
from despair the blue eyes are—how utterly the thin 
lips have forgotten to smile ! ‘ All is vanity and 

vexation of spirit’ might fitly he scribbled on the 

background. The visage is lean and worn, the 
features are sharp and harshly defined, the early 
pleasant gaiety and attractive beauty gone, washed 
away by one surging wave of sorrow.” But other 
sorrows had befallen Angelica during those ten 
years, the chief being caused by the death, in 1782, 
of her faithful father. At Rome the middle-ag-ed 
couple, united, as Rossi comfortably says, “ not by 
the fervour of inconsiderate passion, but by rational 
prudent reflection,” henceforth abode in a charm¬ 
ing house, enjoying a tolerable sort of happiness. 
Her salon was frequented by great men—Goethe 
among the rest, who still admired her talent, and 
who could see what her beauty had been by Sir 
Joshua’s portrait of her—the one engraved by 
Bartolozzi—which hung on the walls. Royal and 
other commissions and honours followed her yet, till 
in 1795, when she was fifty-five years old, her life 
entered on a new phase. Her husband died, and the 
French invaded Rome, with this result to the lonely 
widow, that her fortune, mostly lodged in the Bank of 
Rome, was swept away. Still she worked on, and 
was brave enough to write that “ a resigned mind is 
enabled to endure the distresses of this world.” For 
a few years longer was the trial to last. In 1801 
began a consumption, which finally cost her her 
life. Patient in her illness, she was happy in her 
death, and her funeral was magnificent. The church 
of S. Andrea delle Fratte was decorated for the 
solemn occasion; Canova, the great sculptor, took 
charge of the arrangements, and a huge procession 
accompanied the coffin. The corners of the pall 
were borne by four young girls dressed in white, 
and its tassels were carried by the four first mem¬ 
bers of the Academy; while two of her own 
pictures were held aloft in triumph. She was 
beloved by the poor during her life, and in her 
death they were not forgotten. If the Italian 
Government’s general expropriation has spared 
them, some alms must still be distributed every 
year, under the provisions of her will, to the miser¬ 
able and the needy. 

A sad impression is left upon the mind by this 
life, successful and brilliant as it was—perhaps 
because we cannot deny that the over-praised and 
long-flattered artist had not the genius which could 
make her career triumphant to after-times. She was 
a mere woman, and yet she left behind her not 
children but pictures, and if these pictures had been 
a precious heritage to the world, to no one would 
her childless life seem incomplete. As it is, her 
biographers are inclined to echo the words placed 
in the mouth of the poetess by Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning: “ What’s art for a woman?” For An¬ 
gelica Kauffman was not great enough to leave a 
sexless fame. John Oldcastle. 


By G. P. Jacgmb Hood. 

A LL the harvests are picturesque. It would he 
difficult to give the preference to those of 
land or sea. The deep, which is not ploughed or 
reaped, has yet a beauty of the seasons, the strange 
vegetation of the ocean springs and flowers under 
the universal vernal change. Shelley sings of 
“ The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean.” 

These hear, he says, the voice of the wild west wind, 
the breath of Autumn's being, the destroyer and 
preserver, and grow grey with fear and despoil 
themselves. And the surface of the sea has its 
seasons—the blue of a still, sunny winter day, so 
unlike the blue of the middle summer, the grey 
of the autumnal storm and the grey of the July 
thunder—changes as subtle but as sure as those 
which pass over the distant treeless plain and the 
barren hill, where the long monotony of green is 
seen to quicken in spring, and then to flush faintly 
with what we know to be myriad flowers, and 
later to grow more dun with seeds. The lovely 
vicissitudes of heat and cold, summer and winter, 
seed-time and harvest show everywhere—except, 
perhaps, in a coal-mine. But the crops of the sea 
are no growth to be watched and tended until their 
yielding-time; they cost man no labour except tbe 
happy labour of ingathering; they come like a 
surprise. Silver shines suddenly in the distance of 
the summer waves, and the fisher-folk forthwith 
may spend their days and nights in sweeping in 
the fish. 

Among all the harvests wheat-harvest is as¬ 
suredly the king—gold as compared to this silver. 
Then comes the vintage; and the olive-gathering, 
when the hot autumnal sun is beginning to grow 
languid and weak along the mountain-sides of Italy; 
the cocoon-harvest, when the luminous yellow balls 
are heaped under the sheds; the harvest of maize— 
a fuller glow of gold; our own hay-harvest in the 
richest time of flowers, perhaps the most fragrant 
of all the crops; the hop-harvest in the Kentish 
fields, when the beautiful odorous trailer is shorn 
of its graceful bells—the prettiest harvest this of 
all, but somewhat marred as to its sentiment; 
for the fancy, which follows the dust of Caesar 
to ignominious uses, cannot refrain from tracing 
the delicate hop to the vulgar beer of a reeking 
public-house. Of the rose-harvest in the East, ex¬ 
perience is less common, but its very name is a 

Mr. Jacomb Hood has chosen not only a pic¬ 
turesque incident, but a picturesque calling, for the 
subject of his beautiful etching. All those callings 
are eminently poetical and artistic which deal with 
the more elementary labours of man. The husband¬ 
man, the shepherd, the fisherman, the hunter, are 
foremost in this respect; then the builder, the 
weaver, the carpenter, who produce necessaries; but 
no one could make anything, aesthetically, of the 
labourer who deals with the more complex wants 
of life, and the more complex the wants which he 
supplies, the less artistic is his vocation. For in¬ 
stance, much as art has made of late—and justly 
-—of the dignity of labour, it is not easy to find 
nobility in the grocer’s shop, or in the pin-factory, 
or among the processes of the production of buttons. 
The nearer we get back to elementary feeling and 
elementary emotions the better for art, and so in an 
especial manner with elementary necessities. Hap¬ 
pily the labour which supplies these goes on in 
spite of all complexities. The thousand artificial 
requirements of modern life do not destroy its 
primitive needs; moreover. Nature is always elemen¬ 
tary, and always simple; her large and noble ways 
by earth and sea do not alter, nor can they be 

Especially must the coming of the plenty of 
the sea be waited for, for it cannot be advanced or 
in any way prospered by man’s anxieties or labour. 
When, on some sunny morning, such as this in 
the etching, the news of “mackerel in the harbour” 
lings from the beach, the gift is felt to be freely 
given. The old man, too old to join in the har¬ 
vesting, looks out from his net-mending towards the 
shining sea; the old wife, whose sphere narrows 
itself day by day to her little house—for while old 
peasant-men seek the air of out-of-doors, old peasant- 
women sit within—peers out into the light; the 
young daughter throws her arm about her father’s 
neck with the affectionateness of pleasure. The 
young fellows of the village stride over the shingle 
to their boats, in the undemonstrative happiness 
of work. 

The artist has filled his plate with sun. Cob- 
bett, who waxes so strongly, seriously, and roughly 
emphatic — almost eloquent — on the wholesome 
effects of plenty in the cottager’s home, when the 
pig is slain and the house is full of meat (the im¬ 
pressive italics are his own), might have drawn a 
picture of the village when it is full of fish. 


r is hoped and be¬ 
lieved that the 
Royal Courts of 
J ustiee, now ra¬ 
pidly approaching 
completion, will be 
ready for use by 
Easter in next year, 
and that, at last, 
the administration 
of British justice 
will possess a local 
habitation not un¬ 
worthy of its name. 
The long years of 
discussion, of argu¬ 
ment, and counter¬ 
argument between 
the advocates of 
rival sites, and of 
competition between rival architects, must be fresh 
in the recollection of many of our readers; hut 

they will not be referred to by us further than to 
state the bold facts which every one knows, that 
Mr. Street finally obtained the much-coveted com¬ 
mission, and that the building has been erected 
from the modified plans which were forced upon 
him by the economy which was in fashion in the 
early years of the administration then in power. 
We purpose to describe the more public parts of 
this building in as much detail as our space will 
allow, omitting all notice of the eastern block, which 
has now been so long in use that most people have 
made acquaintance with it for themselves. 

The main building of the Royal Courts of Justice 
may be roughly divided into three parts. Firstly, 
the great hall in the centre, which is to serve the 
same purpose as the hall at Westminster, and the 
almost equally famous “ Salle des Pas Perdus,” in 
Paris. Secondly, the encircling line of courts, 
eighteen in number, to which the hall gives common 
access. Thirdly, the great quadrangular building 
which surrounds the courts, and offers facades to 
the Strand, Clement’s Inn, Carey Street, and the 



Eastern Quadrangle. This part of the building con¬ 
tains the rooms for the judges and for the numberless 
registrars, clerks, masters, and other officials, without 
whom the great legal machine would, we suppose, 
come to a standstill altogether. The dimensions, on 
plan, of the whole building, including the eastern 
block of offices, are, speaking roughly, 470 feet from 
east to west, by 463 from north to south. It covers, 
therefore, about one-sixth less ground than the New 
Palace at Westminster, better known as the Houses of 
Parliament. The width of the main block is 293 
feet. In the matter of height the measurements 
are much less imposing. The loftiest point of the 
whole building, the finial of the metal fleche which is 
to crown the central hall, will be no more than 248 
feet 6 inches above the Strand level, or about 100 feet 
lower than the Victoria Tower at Westminster. 

The chief feature of the building is, of course, the 
Central Hall. It will be approached from the Strand 
almost as directly as Westminster Hall is entered 
from New Palace Yard. Nothing intervenes between 
its south end and the street but two vaulted porches, 
the outer one of which will be left without gates. 
In dimensions it is about equal to the nave of a first- 
class English cathedral. In height and width it 
comes between those of York and Lincoln. The nave 
of York Minster is 93 feet high to the cap of the 
groining, and 51 feet wide; that of Lincoln 82 feet 
high and 39 feet wide, while Mr. Street’s hall is 82 
feet high and 48 feet wide. In length it is 231 feet, 
against the 225 feet of York and the 182 of Lincoln. 
It will thus be seen that its dimensions are as 
imposing as could be desired, and the simplicity 
of the purpose which it has to serve, added to the 
absence of side aisles, has enabled the architect to 
give it a dignity which is hardly possible in the case 
of a cathedral nave. The walls internally are divided 
vertically into nine bays, and horizontally into three 
storeys, which roughly correspond to the nave arcade, 
the triforium, and the clerestory of a Gothic cathedral. 
The absence of aisles has allowed, however, of a 
clerestory descending much lower than that of any 
cathedral, and giving to the hall rather the appear¬ 
ance of a huge college chapel. It is, in fact, pretty 
much what the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge, 
would probably have been had it been built two hun¬ 
dred years earlier than its actual date. The windows 
occupy rather more than half the total height of the 
wall. They are nine in number, and being all of one 
design, except in the details of the carving, they form 
an imposing wall of glass and slender shafts. Im¬ 
mediately below them runs a band of plain wall-space, 
16 feet deep, which looks as if it had been designedly 
left for the painter, and below that again comes a 
band of Gothic arcading, through which are pierced 
doorways leading to the staircases which communicate 

with the courts on the floor above. As the vaulting 
shafts are brought down to the ground, these two 
horizontal divisions are divided vertically into nine 
quadrangular sections. At the south end of the hall 
is the huge five-lighted window, of simple design, 
which is seen from the Strand, while at the north end 
there are three lancets. The roof is a quadripartite 
stone vault, the ribs being of Portland and the filling- 
in of Bath stone. It was originally intended that 
the flooring, of varied marbles, should rest upon a 
crypt of vaulted brickwork, but the arrangements 
for heating and ventilation have compelled the archi¬ 
tect to make use of a system of girders instead. 
The whole of the architectural details of the hall 
are of an early “ middle-pointed ” character. Mr. 
Street has here depended for effect more upon the 
simplicity of his general design and the justness of 
his proportions than upon ornament. The required 
points of richness are given by carved capitals, 
string-courses, and labels, by the use of different 
kinds of granite in the clustered engaged columns 
between the windows, and by some features of semi- 
Venetian ornateness in the galleries which look down 
into the hall at either end. In its present unfinished 
state, and encumbered as it is with scaffolding, it 
would be rash to form a final opinion as to the 
measure of success which Mr. Street has achieved 
in this, the main feature of his building. But per¬ 
haps we may venture to express our belief that when 
all obstacles to a fair judgment are removed, the 
proportion of height to width will appear too small. 
The ratio is as 1 for the width, to slightly more than 
If for the height, which is considerably lower than 
that of York Minster—the lowest, proportionately, 
of English cathedrals—where the width of the nave 
has generally been thought excessive. Externally, 
the great slated roof of the hall, with its pinnacled 
gables and slender fleche, will be the most conspicuous 
feature in the building, and, from either the roadway 
of the Strand or from more distant points of view, 
will help to give to the design the dignity and 
height which, in other ways, it so sadly lacks. The 
fleche has been designed upon lines not dissimilar 
to those of the famous one which crowns the inter¬ 
section of nave and transepts at Amiens Cathedral. 
It will be of lead, partly gilded, over a core of oak 
and pine. Gold-leaf, unfortunately, does not long 
retain its brilliance in the London atmosphere, and 
it may fairly be asserted that copper—which, under 
all circumstances, retains a fairly agreeable colour— 
would have been preferable to lead as a covering. 
Mr. Street’s intentions as to this spire have been 
greatly modified since the commencement of the 
works. It was originally intended to make it of 
a more massive and less lofty character, to place it 
in the centre of the roof-ridge, and to support it 



witnesses’ corridor. 

upon ribs in the vaulting of the hall. Its actual 
position, immediately in rear of the great southern 
gable, is a great improvement, as it not only makes 
it more conspicuous in itself, but enables it to give 
accent and meaning to the chief facade, and to form 
the principal member of what is now an effective 
group of pinnacles. 

Access to the court floor is obtained by eight 
staircases of similar design, which lead directly to 
the bar corridor, and by two others which commence 
right and left of the main entrance. These eight 
staircases form, perhaps, the most remarkable feature 
in the building. They are semicircular on plan, and 
wind round a central column containing a smaller 
staircase for service purposes. They have groined 
stone roofs, and are well lighted by two-light traceried 
windows, which look into the areas between the 
courts. Four of them lead into the bar or witnesses’ 
corridor through the angles of the courts them¬ 
selves,* in a fashion which seems to be gratuitously 
destructive to internal effect. Plad the communi¬ 
cation been direct, it would have been no less con¬ 
venient either to barristers, witnesses, or public, and 
as it would have allowed the architectural details of 
the staircases to be seen from the corridor, it would 
have given greater space and variety to what is now 
a rather monotonous passage. The circulation to 
and from the courts is carried through four main 
arteries. One for barristers and witnesses, which we 
have already mentioned; one for the general public, 
leading to the galleries, with which each court is 
provided; one for the judges, which runs along the 

back of tbe courts, and gives direct access to the 
bench of each ; and, finally, one for the attorneys 
and officers of the courts. Of these corridors the 
only one which has any great architectural preten¬ 
sions is the first-named. Into it the eight main 
staircases from the central hall direct their stream 
of traffic. The floors of the courts are directly 
reached from it, and, on its inner side, are the 
cloister-like windows which light it, and a series 
of consultation-rooms and lavatories. Its archi¬ 
tecture is of the most masculine character. It is 
broken at frequent intervals by transverse arches of 
severe design, as may be seen by our illustration on 
this page; their piers are square in section, with 
sunk shafts at the angles, and the severity of the 
details is only relieved by carved strings and capitals. 
The flooring is of English marble, and the roof is 
a framed one of oak, except at six points, where 
minor flights of stairs open into the corridor. At 
those points a stone vault takes the place of the 
oak. This corridor extends entirely round the build¬ 
ing, and undergoes more than one vicissitude, in the 
matter of desigu, on its journey, but for much the 
greater part of its length its details are as we have 
described them. Above it runs the public corridor, 
a passage 6 feet wide, and with little in the way of 
ornament, communicating with the galleries which 
face the bench of each court. Access to it is obtained 
by the staircases enclosed in the two richly-carved 
octagonal towers, which are such 
conspicuous objects on either side 
of the main entrance in the Strand, 
and by two much less ornamental 
staircases on the Carey Street front. 

On the outer sides of the courts 
run the corri¬ 
dors forjudges 
and attorneys 

That for the 
latter is consi¬ 
derably below 
the floor level 
of the courts. 

By means of 
passages under 
each bench it 
allows of free 
tion with tl 
associates ai 
other office 
without di 
turbance, ai 
also gives a 
cess to stairs 




and robing rooms. These staircases, 
especially that which opens upon 
the Eastern Quadrangle, and is 
lighted by two beautifully-propor¬ 
tioned windows, are among the plea¬ 
santest features of the building-. 

We now come to the courts 
themselves, the centres of the cir¬ 
culation for which all these great 
arteries provide. The original plans 
contained twenty-four of these, a 
number which would have given 
sufficient accommodation for all the 
present wants of our judicature, and 
would have provided for some mode¬ 
rate expansion. But, in the never- 
to-be-forgotten reign of Mr. Ayrton, 
they were cut down to eighteen—a 
number which is already so clearly 
seen to be inadequate that orders 
have been given to convert one of 
the bar common rooms into an addi¬ 
tional court. This room, which was 
thoroughly well adapted for its ori¬ 
ginal purpose, will make a most incon¬ 
venient and uncomfortable place for a 
judge to do his work in. The entrances will be 
little better than those of the famous, or rather 
infamous, Exchequer Chamber at Westminster, 
while the judge will have to sit squarely facing 
the blaze of light from five huge windows. The 
eighteen courts proper are all upon one level, 
and, with a single exception, are practically all 
of the same size. They vary in width from 29 
which lead up to the to 31 feet, but are all of one depth—39 feet. The 
bar corridor. The one exception to these measurements is a large court 
judges’ corridor is im- for appeals and for other purposes which require a 
mediately above that full bench of judges; it measures 49 feet by 42. 
for the attorneys. It The interior of this court is, at present, lighted 
is no more than 6 feet solely by a finely-designed lantern, framed in oak, in 
6 inches wide, but the the centre of the roof. It seems so obvious, how- 
good proportions of ever, that the arrangement in question will give 
some happily-devised insufficient light, at least in winter, that it will 
windows which light probably be modified before the building is out of 
it from a re-entering the hands of the contractor. The whole of the 
angle in the centre give smaller courts are lighted from windows in the 
it an architectural cha- side walls as well as from the roof. Each of these 
rac-ter which it would is of different design, and some are much more 
otherwise be without, happily conceived than others. So far as we can 
The inner wall is pierced judge in their unfinished state. No. 6, at present 
at irregular intervals by assigned to the Common Pleas division, and No. 15, 
the doors which lead appropriated to Appeals in Equity, are the best in 
to the various benches, this respect. The court walls are to be panelled 
while on the other side with oak to a height of 15 feet from the iloor. 
are the judges’ stair- At the back of the benches the framing will rise 
cases, private rooms, considerably higher than this, and will be balanced 




by the oak galleries for the public on the opposite 
side. As the ceilings and all seats and fittings are 
also to be of oak, the sum of £70,000 which has 
been spent on that material alone is easily accounted 
for. There is at least one detail in these courts 
which we regret to see. The jury-boxes are of the 
time-honoured pattern which has tortured so many 
generations of long-suffering Englishmen. Beyond 
a slight sloping of the seat and back, nothing has 
been done to render the enforced benevolence of 
the juryman less irksome to him. As the one man 
who spends hour after hour in a civil court without 
hope of gain, he might at least be afforded arms 
and cushions to his seat. Large rooms for male and 
female witnesses and for jurymen in waiting are pro¬ 
vided under the courts. For the latter there are also 
little galleries with private approaches, from which 
they can enjoy a bird's-eye view of the proceedings. 

The main block of the Carey Street facade contains 
three fine rooms for the bar, one of them, unhappily, 
now turned into an inconvenient court; also two large 
jury-halls, with refreshment-rooms and lavatories. 
Immediately behind this block runs a transverse 
three-aisled corridor or crypt, vaulted with Portland 
stone and red brick. It is on the same level as the 

floor of the central hall, and consequently several feet 
below the roadway of Carey Street. Its purpose is to 
provide for the cross-traffic between the eastern and 
western portions of the building. The room for 
counsel—of which we give an illustration—which 
is placed over the gateway into the Eastern Quad¬ 
rangle, has been decorated in colour from the archi¬ 
tect's designs. The tints used have little in common 
Avith the dreary tones which are advocated by a 
certain school of modern ornamentists; they form, 
on the contrary, a very successful attempt to pro¬ 
duce something Avorthy of the brilliant colour-har¬ 
monies of Avhich so many vestiges are to be found 
in our ancient Gothic buildings. We only hope 
that official parsimony will not prevent Mr. Street’s 
skill in the use of colour from being exercised upon 
more important parts of the Avork. 

We have noAV given a superficial account of the 
more public parts of this great building. We have 
still to offer in all humility a few criticisms upon 
Avhat Ave conceive to be its architectural merits and 
demerits. To begin with the latter, it seems to us 
that Mr. Street's creation lays itself fairly open to 
the charge Avhich has more than once been brought 
against it—of a perverse disregard of balance and 





symmetry in its masses. With the single exception 
of that part of the Strand elevation which is included 
between the two octagonal stair towers, there is not 
an instance of symmetrical repetition on a large scale 
in the whole exterior. On the other hand, there 
are many instances of what looks like carelessness, 
hut is, in fact, studious—almost malicious—disregard 
of symmetry; and these are terribly destructive of 
architectural effect. Perhaps the most provoking of 
them is to be found on the Carey Street front, 
where the apex of the carved label over the central 
doorway cuts the sill of the great window above it 
into two very unequal parts. Similar failures of 
coincidence occur here and there throughout the 
building, and help to call attention to the lack of 
any governing artistic motive in the general design. 
There are six towers all different, though all of very 
squat proportions; there are eight facades, counting 
those in the great, or eastern, quadrangle, and they 
are all, with the doubtful exception of that which 
faces Clement's Inn, broken up into so many parts 
and into such unsymmetrical masses, that no one of 
them is much more expressive than if it were made 
up of half a dozen buildings by as many different 

Such want of coherence was appropriate enough in 
the great mediaeval buildings upon which Mr. Street 
has modelled his art. They were usually the woi’k of 
several generations, and as they received successively 
the impress of many directing minds, their irregularity 
was a natural growth, and was as true in expression 
as it was picturesque. In these days of what may 
be called Romantic architecture it is too often for¬ 
gotten that a picturesque ensemble is in its very 
nature irreconcilable with a great artistic conception. 
The latter cannot exist without unity, symmetry— 
in a word, without individuality; but the qualities 
which make a building picturesque are identical 
with those which deprive it of individual expression. 
A picturesque thing is one which lends itself to 
pictorial treatment, that is, one which, being with¬ 
out any inseparable unique expression of its own, 
can be clothed in the personality of the painter, 
etcher, or other artist who may treat it. In this 
way our new Palace of Justice is more picturesque, 
perhaps, than any other modern building of equal 
importance. It would not be a hopeless task to 
make a good picture of it, because, by careful selec¬ 
tion of the point of view, by combining the lights 
and shadows, by repressing a little here and accenting 
a little there, it could be turned, by the utterance 
of some painters' individuality, into a synthetic 
work at last. And we must admit that Mr. Street's 
analytical method has its compensations. In these 
courts of justice there is none of the thoughtless 
repetition of detail which disfigures so many great 

buildings. The sections of every door or window 
moulding, the designs for each carved capital, string 
course, label, or dripstone, for each stair balustrade 
and stone chimney-piece, for every detail of groining 
or oak framing, have been the objects of his separate 
and individual attention. In this respect his work 
contrasts very greatly with that of many other archi¬ 
tects. He appears to have a perfect horror of 
monotony, and to aim at making his building look as 
if its decorative details had been left to a crowd of 
separate and independent designers. Many of these 
details, however, are very beautiful. We may give, 
as an instance, the balustrades round the galleries 
in the central hall. These are Venetian rather than 
English in design, and are carried out in a warm 
grey Derbyshire marble from Hopton Wood, a large 
quantity of which is used for similar purposes in 
the building. One of these galleries—that at the 
northern end of the hall—seems to have been sug¬ 
gested to Mr. Street by a curious balcony or canopy 
which occurs in the Church of St. Peter, at Maid’s 
Morton, in Buckinghamshire. The balcony in ques¬ 
tion is over the west door of the church. It is 
supported by two brackets, which are similar in form 
and detail to the pendentives of such fan-vaults as 
the roof of St. George's at Windsor, or King's College 
Chapel at Cambridge. These brackets rest upon 
engaged shafts, and the space enclosed by the whole 
is tilled up by the doorway. Mr. Street's gallery 
is a repetition of this arrangement, with the excep¬ 
tion that it is supported by three brackets instead 
of two, that there are two doorwaj^s between them, 
and that the details are, of course, Edwardian, while 
those of the Buckinghamshire church are Perpendicu¬ 
lar. The way in which the gallery at the south end 
is supported is, on the other hand, clumsy in the 
extreme; it rests upon two huge and heavy stone 
corbels, which, in their turn, are each supported by 
a comparatively slender shaft of English marble, 
which appears quite unequal to the work which it 
has to do; but the minor details of the building 
are generally both beautiful and appropriate; and 
although the work, as a whole, must be denied the 
glory which belongs to a great artistic conception, 
it certainly deserves that which should be given to 
the effects of a severe taste and of an extraordinary 
power of work. 

It is at present intended to lay out as a garden 
the space which intervenes between the western 
facyade of the Royal Courts, and Clement's Inn, but 
it is certain that before many years have passed over 
us further coiirt accommodation will be required, and 
an opportunity, which we sincerely hope may not 
be thrown away, will then be given of adding to the 
monumental effect of the Strand front by repeating 
its eastern wing. W. Armstrong. 


“EQUILIBRIUM.” Statue by Signor Ettore Ximenes. 

- -+o+ - 

T HE sculptor of this work is, notwithstanding 
his Spanish name, a Palermitan, and may be 
taken as in every respect Italianissimo in his art. 
In this figure he has carried the modern idea of 
sculpture so completely to its extreme that he has 
made revolution against former canons not only a 
part of his statue but its very motive. He has pro¬ 
duced a figure so precarious in action and so violent 
in tension that a sensitive person finds it difficult 
to look at it without a sensible sympathetic affection 
of his own nerves and muscles. No more complete 
antithesis could be found to—say, the Egyptian 
sphinx, than this momentary and hazardous type of 
modern unrest. And not only is it a defiance to the 
art of repose of Egypt; it is almost equally rebel¬ 
lious against the art of action of Greece, and against 
that of Italy—as well by the manner and measure 
of its movement, as by its insistently realistic denial 
of beauty, and—in our opinion—by its disregard of 
sympathetic sentiment. The panegyrists of the 
statue (which was exhibited in life-size at the Paris 
International of 1878, and in the form of a small 
bronze replica at Milan in 1881) make much of 
what they consider the pathos of the work; for, 
according to them. Signor Ximenes has painfully 
elaborated a painful subject with the object of 
arousing emotion. A critic, writing in 1878 of the 
work, then called “ The Clown's Son,” considers that 
childish suffering, physical and mental, is expressed 
in every limb and line of the body, in the emacia¬ 
tion of the forms, in the anxiety of the face- 
telling of fasts, labours, weariness, and the fear of 
the whij). The artist's intention is better under¬ 
stood, probably, if we take the figure to express 
intentness upon the action of the moment and 
nothing else—no terrible drama of untimely tragedy, 
but merely a passage of keen childish effort. The 
forms are not thinner than those of an active boy 
should be, nor does the intense face show more 
than the interested anxiety of achievement. Effort, 
indeed, is the whole intention of the statue, and is 
expressed to the utmost—in the wariness of the eye, 
the involuntary strain of the facial muscles, and the 
trepidation of the body. The legs are sensitive, and 
seem to feel the instability of their standing; the 
knees and the feet cling; there is no rest to muscle 
or tendon even in the fingers. The sculptor has 
shown not only effort, but contradictory effort, the 
child's labour being at once progressive and sta¬ 
tionary—that is, he must urge his ball upon its 
incline and keep his place upon the ball, so that 

the balance, combination, and antithesis of motion 
unite to produce that feeling of extreme unrest 
which has been Signor Ximenes' aim. He has also 
strained the lines of his figure in the double effort 
of conscious and unconscious movement—the child’s 
attention being fixed upon his feet, while the balance 
of his arms and shoulders is governed altogether by 
instinct. In the matter of modelling the work is 
excellent—not the least successful passage, in the 
original, being the treatment of the feet, which, 
though quieter than the rest of the figure, and more¬ 
over covered by the clumsy stockings of the poor 
street athlete, through which their action is shown, 
are admirably studied and completed with fine cor¬ 
rection. Swift progress would undoubtedly have 
been far more easily expressed in art than this sway¬ 
ing, tremulous, difficult advance, mingled so inti¬ 
mately with retardation and with a precarious pause 
in which there is not the fraction of an instant of 
repose. The work is eminently the expression of 
difficulty—difficulty is its theme and difficulty the 
manner of its execution. 

If difficult achievement is the aim and the boast 
of all art—even the most dignified and the most 
modest—it may be said that the classics were con¬ 
tent to make no direct appeal to wonder, to think 
more of their end and less of their way, and, in fine, 
more of their subject and less of themselves. Such 
personal glories, vanities, and efforts as they felt in 
the matter were veiled with self-respect and reti¬ 
cence. Who would guess, for instance—for the 
same reserve is found in early and pure mediaeval 
art as in classic sculpture—how keen and strong the 
feeling of personality, or artistic self-love, was in 
the apparently selfless painter Perugino? History, 
or tradition, or calumny, it may be, tells us that he 
loved his art in a way which made the mastery and 
triumph of another bitter to him, but such perso¬ 
nality is lost in the dignity of his work. It would 
be more just to say that Michael Angelo was the 
first to display self-preoccupation than that he was 
the first to display himself in his art, though the 
distinction is slight enough. The modern Italians, 
with their triumphs of cleverness, are saved from 
the degradation of the art of vanity by one thing— 
their realism. Their intention is fixed so singly and 
simply on representing the thing as it is, that we 
can hardly accuse them of “ producing themselves” 
vulgarly in the way they reach their end. And in 
this realism they are true men, being so eminently 
true to the spirit of their time. 

EQUILIBRIUM. (From the Statue by Signor Ettore Ximenes.) 


(From the Fainting by Rosa Bonheur. By Permission of Messrs. Goupil & Go.) 


T HE proud and almost unique position which Rosa 
Bonheur occupies in the world of art has not 
been won without patient labour and much individual 
daring. One less resolute and heroic would have suc¬ 
cumbed under the continued pressure—not so much, 
perhaps, of absolute poverty as of stinted means— 
which Rosa Bonheur bore so cheerfully during the 
first five-and-twenty years of her life ; but filial love 
and ardent loyalty to her home and family made the 
burden light, and enabled her to hold on her laborious 
course with a ceaseless hand and a merry heart, till 
such time as her own fine nature and artistic genius 
brought fame and fortune to the domestic hearth. 

This sentiment of family love and unity, which 
is by no means without sundry pleasing precedents 
in the history of art, was a peculiarly grateful in¬ 
heritance of the Bonheurs, and was the simple and 

natural outcome of the mutual affection of their 

Raymond Bonheur was a young painter of no 
mean merit pursuing his profession at Bordeaux in 
1820. He had already gained several prizes for 
drawing, and by giving lessons in the art he was 
able to support his aged parents. Among his pupils 
was a young lady whose beauty and gentle dis¬ 
position did not long escape the eye of the master. 
Naturally ardent in temperament, he soon became 
enamoured of his pupil, and she in her turn was not 
slow in reciprocating the passion of which he be¬ 
trayed so many proofs. 

Falling in love in this irregular, anti-French 
fashion seems to have exasperated the father of the 
lady; and, when the young couple were married, he 
refused all assistance, and left them to such resources 



as courage, industry, and mutual devotion could 

The firstfruits of this happy union was Rosa 
Bonheur, who was born at Bordeaux on March 25th, 
1822. With a gathering family, daily-increasing 
expenses, and ever-lessening means, Raymond Bon¬ 
heur, when his daughter was about four years of 
age, resolved to remove to Paris, the sanctuary of 
the arts, the ideal home of the bold and hopeful. 

But for all their courage and industry—the wife 
giving lessons on the piano, and the husband doing 
all that possibly could be done at his profession—the 
young couple were sore beset. The period of 1829 
and 1836 was a most difficult time; pictures did 
not sell, portrait-commissions were few, and lessons 
failed. To pecuniary pressure was added domestic 
bereavement, and Raymond Bonheur lost his loyal 
companion, the loving’ wife who had shared his 
labours and sustained his courage. She died in the 
August of 1833, leaving four little ones behind her. 

Independent in spirit, kindly and generous in 
disposition, Rosa Bonheur, as a little girl, much pre¬ 
ferred dabbling her little fat hands in the clay of the 
atelier and making small figures of it, to opening a 
grammar and learning’ her lessons. As the father 
with much courage and perseverance gradually sur¬ 
mounted his difficulties, he was able to place his 
children under the care of a nurse in the Champs 
Ely sees, who sent them to school, and, being a woman 
of a practical habit of mind, insisted on close atten¬ 
tion to lessons. But Rosa, at that period of her 
life, cared little for books, and in spite of “Nurse 
Catherine " preferred sauntering through the green 
avenues of the Bois de Boulogne to see the horses 
exercise. These defiant wanderings of our heroine 
led to many a grave reproof from the nurse; but on 
the whole those two years of loitering were years 
of happiness, and no one may say how much this 
solitary and independent communing with nature 
in the bosky depths of the Bois de Boulogne may 
have influenced the character and directed the tastes 
of the youthful Rosa. 

In the meantime she was placed with a sempstress 
to learn to sew, but the awkwardness she displayed 
in the management of her needle showed how utterly 
distasteful the occupation was to her. Far otherwise 
was it when she could succeed in escaping from the 
work-room, and slily skip into that of the needle¬ 
woman's husband, who possessed a lathe. “ If he 
was at work/' to quote a biographer to whom we 
have repeatedly had recourse, “ she would beg the 
favour of being allowed to turn the wheel for him;" 
if he was absent, she would do her best to set the 
machinery in motion on her own account, and the 
result was that sometimes in her eagerness she would 
spoil the good man's tools. 

Such opportunities, however, were rare, and the 
drudgery of the needle being extremely irksome to 
her, she was by no means loth to leave it for re¬ 
sidence in a boarding-school where her father was 
drawing-master, and where her companions belonged 
to wealthy families. For a like exchange of lessons 
Raymond Bonheur had already succeeded in placing 
his two boys in a similar school, and like them Rosa 
was to have equal advantages with the other pupils. 

In spite of her want of fortune, which subjected 
her sometimes to humiliations, she speedily became 
the best at all the games, and the enthusiastic ring¬ 
leader in all the mischief. The teachers lost all 
hope, and were often annoyed at the tricks she played 
them. She had sufficient talents to learn rapidly 
and well when she chose; but her disposition was 
turbulent—indeed, a little fierce—and she submitted 
with difficulty to educational restraint. 

But ever and anon came to her the pain of wounded 
pride inflicted by her rich companions, sometimes 
accidentally and sometimes purposely; for young 
girls, when congregated in schools, are not over- 
merciful, and delight not so much in simply showing 
the poor ones of the herd the wide disparity of their 
condition, as in making them feel it. 

These mortifications, little in our eyes, but of 
portentous magnitude in those of the youthful 
sufferer, ultimately drove Rosa back upon herself. 
She withdrew from the society of her companions, 
and as she communed with herself, the ambition 
to be great took possession of her soul. In her 
mental gropings for direction in the path she should 
go, she became troubled in spirit and ungovernable 
in temper, and at last so enraged the masters that 
her father was obliged to take her from the school. 

Having returned to her home, she found that for 
which her soul panted : her ideas expanded in the 
silence of her father's painting-room, and with joy 
she at last descried the path she was to pursue. The 
guiding light of heaven illumined both it and her, 
and she drew and modelled with all the fresh enthu¬ 
siasm of an artist's youth. 

Delightedly Raymond Bonheur marked the indi¬ 
cations of his daughter's talents, which he cultivated 
with care, and placed under educational discipline in 
whatever pertained to the technique of art. After 
this he sent her to the Louvre that she might form 
her taste upon the masterpieces of antiquity; and such 
was her ardour and constancy that she was the first at 
the opening of the museum and the last to leave it. 

With such energetic industry her progress was 
rapid, and the copies she produced were worthy the 
inspiration under which she worked. One day, when 
she had finished “ Les Bergers d’Arcadie," an old man 
approached, and, examining carefully the picture as it 
lay on the easel, said, “ Do you know, my dear, that 



tli is copy is admirable, irreproachable ! Continue your 
studies thus, and I predict that you will become a 
great artist/'’ That evening, when the doors of the 
gallery closed, Rosa Bonheur returned home with 
joy in her heart, for she felt now that her ardent 
hope for future fame might be realised. Anxiously 
desirous to be of service to her father, she worked 
incessantly. The moment a copy was finished, it was 
disposed of for whatever could be obtained for it, 
in order that the domestic means might be enlarged. 

As in the case of his other children, Rosa’s father 
was her only teacher. M. Leon Coguiet showed her 
great kindness, and gave her valuable encouragement 
in the progress of her labours, but he was never 
her master. Her knowledge of technique came solely 
from her father, her inspiration as entirely from 
nature. To pursue the latter untrammelled, she had 
the courage to attend daily the Roule slaughter-house, 
and the rough men by whom she was surrounded, 
whose gross manners and repulsive trade would have 

Having attained her seventeenth year, Rosa Bon¬ 
heur commenced the study of animal forms. Her 
first effort was a goat executed from nature. De¬ 
lighted with the new path in art opened to her, she 
sought subjects on all sides, and made frequent 
excursions into the country on foot, her colours in 
her hand, or laden with several pounds’ weight of 
modelling clay. Unable to afford anything in the 
shape of a conveyance, she often returned to her 
father’s house broken down by over-exertion; but 
nothing could damp the ardour or subdue the energy 
of one whose object was thus to master the mysteries 
of art and unlock thereby the secrets of nature. 

daunted a less resolute nature, soon learned to respect 
and admire her. Some say that it was in these 
abattoirs she first assumed male attire, and that it 
was to avoid the rude behaviour of the slaughter¬ 
men that she did so. 

So assiduously did she carry on her studies in 
these reeking shambles, and so absorbingly did she 
identify herself with her subject, that she frequently 
forgot to take the refreshment she carried with her, 
which generally consisted of a piece of bread carried 
in her pocket. When she returned home in the 
evening her bonnet, her sketch-book, and studies, all 
indicated the presence of the myriads of flies that 



always congregate where animals are confined and 

According to F. Lepelle de Bois-Gallais, whose 
admirable biography, written a quarter of a century 
ago, we have frequently quoted, subject to such 
correction as Mdlle. Rosa Bonheur has herself very 
kindly suggested to us, her father at length took 
a second wife, and this new marriage added two 
more children to the domestic circle. It became 
therefore absolutely necessary that redoubled exer¬ 
tions should be made. A spirit of emulation accord¬ 
ingly took possession of the Avhole family. United 
in the same painting-room, like a young covey, they 
all worked away ardently and merrily under the wing 
of their father, the master and friend who shared 
their hard labours and joined in their innocent 
games. “ I have been told/ 5 continues M. de Bois- 
Gallais, “ that nothing could be more delightful or 
more touching than that picture. Auguste and 
Isidore studied without ceasing, and Rosa, the first 
at her easel, sang from morning* till night. They 
were disheartened by uo misfortune, and often after 
the fatigues of the day our young artist spent the 
evening by the fitful light of the lamp in making 
designs for the morrow’s sale.” 

This happy little home was situated on the sixth 
floor of a house in the Rue Rumfort. The birds of 
which Rosa was so fond, instead of being confined in 
a cage, had something like the semblance of liberty in 
enjoying the range of the room, a piece of network 
made by her brother preventing their escape by the 
window. The existence of a sheep, which also shared 
her affections, could not be made quite so comfortable 
on the sixth floor of a Paris house; but it was a 
docile model and always at hand, and Isidore Bonheur 
would often laughingly place it on his shoulders, 
and, descending the long stairs, carry it to a neigh¬ 
bouring meadow to graze on the fresh grass. 

This love of animals afterwards found a 
more fitting field for its exercise in her all 
but baronial home at Thomery, on the 
confines of the Forest of Fontainebleau, 
where she now resides. Here all the 
beasts she has bad at one time or 
another under her care would form 
a considerable menagerie. It is 
not long since she presented to 
the Jardin des Plantes a beau¬ 
tiful lion and lioness, which, 
when in her keeping, used 
to come up to the bars of 
the cage to be stroked and 
patted by her sympathetic 
little hand. 

Her first picture was 
that of a pair of rabbits 

which figured in the Salon of 1840. The Salon 
of 1841 accepted and hung two charming little pic¬ 
tures of sheep and goats; and the following year 
furnished it with three, entitled “Animals in a 
Meadow ” under an evening effect, “ A Cow Lying 
in a Meadow,” and “ This Horse to be Sold.” In 
1843 were exhibited “ Horses Leaving the Water¬ 
ing-Place ” and “ Horses in a Field.” When sent 
the same year to Rouen these pictures obtained the 
bronze medal. In the exhibition of 1844 she had 
five pictures, and a bull modelled in clay, and this 
time the city of Rouen awarded her the silver medal. 
Each year added to her renown, and in due time she 
received from Paris the gold medal. 

In 1847 all the family were still in the Rue Rum- 
fort, working together heartily as of yore. Auguste 
and Isidore had already obtained some distinction, 
the former as a painter, the latter as a sculptor, and 
Juliette, now Madame Peyrol, was endeavouring with 
no little success to tread in the steps of her sister. 
About this time Paul Delaroche visited Rosa, and 
the kindliness of his manner and the encouraging 
character of his words made a deep impression on 
her mind. 

The Revolution of 1848, with its terrible excite¬ 
ment and confusion, did not for a moment interrupt 
the studies of our young artist. She had exhibited 
some magnificent “ Bulls of Cantal,” which were pur¬ 
chased for England, and which laid the foundation 
of her fame in this country. 

With her fortunes rose those of her father, and 
the heroic man, after all these years of incessant 
labour and anxiety, was appointed by the Government 


(By Permission of Mr. L. II. LefLvre.) 



(From the Painting by Rosa Bonheur .) 

Director of tiie Female School of Design. But life A 
burden had been too heavy for him, and incessant 
struggles left him at last so prostrate that he was not 
able to share with his family the joys of triumph. He 
died on the 24th March, 1849, and from what has 
been said it may easily be imagined with what pro¬ 
found grief the family was overwhelmed. 

Rosa succeeded her father in the direction of the 
school, and had during his illness painted the mag¬ 
nificent picture of “ Ploughing in the Nivernais.” 
When exhibited it made a great sensation, and was 
bought by the Government, who complimented the 
artist, and honoured the work by hanging it in the 

Rosa Bonheur's compositions now followed each 
other without interruption, and consisted of such 
subjects as “ Weary Oxen Going to Water,” “ Cows 
with their Playful Calves,” “ Ewe and her Lamb 
Surprised by a Storm/'’ “ A Farmer of Auvergne” 
-—mounted on his nag, accompanied by his man 
driving to market a herd of animals—“ Chalk Waggon 
of the Limousin,” “Young Shepherd of the Pyrenees 
Guarding his Flock,” “Charcoal-Burning in a Forest,” 
and the like. These works attracted the critical 
admiration of the finest judges in Paris, and France 
felt that she had in Rosa Bonheur another Troy on. 
In force of conception and vigour of brushwork 
there was no indication of her sex on the canvases 
of our heroine. 

Hitherto Rosa Bonheur's fame had been mainly 
confined to France, but now it was about to cross the 
Channel, and, through England, to become world¬ 
wide. When in 1856 her famous “ Horse Fair” was 
exhibited by M. Gambart in the French Gallery, 
the artists and connoisseurs of this country could 
scarcely realise the fact that they were looking 
on the work of a woman; and the gallery, we well 
remember, was crowded daily for months by those 
who wished to satisfy themselves as to the merits 
of the picture. Neither James Ward, R.A., nor 


Sir Edward Landseer, who for 
many years followed that artist's 
method, had ever produced a 
group of horses like this, so natu¬ 
ral, so rampant, and so life-like. 
Rosa Bonheur’s triumph, in 
short, was complete, and hence¬ 
forth her name in England was 
a household word. 

Since then, now about a 
quarter of a century ago, Rosa 
Bonheur has gone quietly on 
pursuing her profession with 
unabated ardour in the seclu¬ 
sion of her forest chateau, en¬ 
riching the world and extend¬ 
ing her fame. There is no animal subject, from 
lions to lambs, which she has not touched, and 
touching ennobled; few countries where shepherds 
wander with their flocks, from the Pyrenees to the 
Grampians, or where the lowland hind follows the 
laborious steer and the furrow-cleaving plough, which 
she has not made as lovingly her own as if the inci¬ 
dents depicted were a group of grazing or of startled 
deer within her own noble forest of Fontainebleau; 
for that, too, is peculiarly hers. 

Rosa Bonheur is below the average height of 
her sex, but she is robustly and broadly built, and 
she carries her head with an air of freedom, and 
when a younger woman, almost of defiance. The 
carnation has not yet left her cheek, and her 
comely face speaks of health and' vigour. Her 
hair, however, is fast turning grey, and she still 
wears it cut and parted like a man's. When in 
her studio and at home, her attire also follows 
that of the sterner sex ; but, as a clever con¬ 
temporary remarks, “ her face restores a perfect 
womanliness to the whole figure—small regular fea¬ 
tures, soft hazel eyes, and a dignified benignity of 
expression. The manner matches the face. She has 
a low pleasant voice, and a direct sincerity of speech 
most agreeably free from the artifices of compliment.” 
When she goes to Paris she dresses in the uniform 
of her own sex; but she never assumes petticoats 
without deprecating the custom, and complaining of 
their interfering with the freedom of the limbs, and 
thereby impeding the power of locomotion. 

The work on which she is at present engaged is 
one of life-size, and represents horses trampling out 
corn, as seen in the south of France and in Italy. 
It is doubtful whether she will ever have leisure 
to finish this colossal picture; if she does, she will 
probably form a collection of her works in painting 
and sculpture, which will be submitted to the public. 

A list of the published engravings from her works, 
chronologically arranged, may not be unacceptable to 



the reader. “The Horse Fair in Paris,” engraved 
by Thomas Landseer, A.R.A., was published by 
M. Gambart in 1856. In the meantime the artist 
visited Scotland, to her great delight, and the next 
year saw published “Morning in the Highlands,” 
engraved by Charles G. Lewis. In 1858 appeared 
“ Landais Peasants Going to Market,” by H. T. 
Ryall; which was followed in 1859 by “Bonricairos 
Crossing the Pyrenees,” by C. G. Lewis. In 1860 
Thomas Landseer finished a large plate of “ Denizens 
of the Highlands,” and C. G. Lewis a small one of 
the same subject. Indeed, so popular are the themes 
handled by Rosa Bonheur, that most of them are 
engraved in two sizes. In 1861 the last-named 
engraver produced plates of “ Huntsmen Taking 
Hounds to Cover,” and “A Highland Shepherd;” 
and in the year following, “ A Scottish Raid.” The 
last-named was also engraved by Charles Mottram, 
only in a smaller size. Five years elapsed before the 
services of the engraver were called into requisition. 
In 1867 C. G. Lewis reproduced in black and white 
the “ Family of Deer Crossing the Summit of the 
Long Rocks, in the Forest of Fontainebleau;” II. T. 
Ryall producing the same year “ Changing Pasture.” 
Leaping over another gap, this time of eight years, 

we have in 1875 “ A Stampede,” engraved by 
Thomas Landseer, and “ The Straits of Ballacliulish,” 
by Charles Mottram. The plate of “ Les Longs 
Rochers de Fontainebleau,” published in 1877, is 
the joint work of Charles Mottram and Leopold 

During the present year M. L. II. Lefevre, the 
worthy successor of bis uncle, M. Gambart, now 
Spanish Consul at Nice, has published “ An Old 
Monarch,” the head of a magnificent Nubian lion, 
the same which nsed to come up to the bars of his 
cage, when in the possession of Rosa Bonheur, 
that he might he stroked and fondled by her hand. 
W. H. Simmons is the engraver. There have also 
appeared a stag “ On the Alert,” and its companion 
picture, a couple of wild boars roaming through a 
wintry forest. These have been most successfully 
etched by A. Gilbert, and the original paintings have 
been exhibited during the season at the gallery of 
M. Lefevre. 

And thus, as we have seen, Rosa Bonheur’s 
life has been one long devotion to art and nature. 
She has triumphed over every difficulty, and lived 
to realise to its fullest extent her ideal of an 
artist’s life. John Forbes-Robertson. 


ENICE—it is one of those little 
words which the lips refuse 
to utter alone; or rather, the 
utterance of which wakes so 
many echoes that there is no 
telling where they begin or 
end—echoes that bring to our 
remembrance happy days of 
travel, that chase each other 
through the pages of our fa¬ 
vourite authors, that play 
hide - and - seek among the 
chapters of history. 

For Venice is to each of her visitors a different city. 
There are Shylocks to whom she is only the Rialto; 
there are Bassanios to whom she is a place of perpetual 
festival; there are Antonios to whom she is an altar 
of sacrifice; there are Jessicas who run from her for 
love; and Portias who visit her by stealth. There are 
poets—see now, how even men of the same craft will 
differ from each other in their account of her ! Dante, 
casting about for a simile for the blackness of his 
Malebolge, can think of nothing grim enough but— 

“ The great arsenal of the Venetians, where 
Seethes in its furnaces the burning pitch.’’ 


Nor, except in two very uncomplimentary passages 
in the “ Paradise,” does he care to make of Venice 
anything better than a background for a picture of 

1 ‘ A black devil of ferocious aspect 
Running along a crag ” 

—and yet Dante knew Venice in the very zenith 
of her greatness; when her Doges had just given 
shelter to a Pope Hying from the fury of a Bar- 
barossa, had held Otho prisoner, had dictated terms 
at the gates of Constantinople, had annexed the 
islands of Greece, and claimed entire dominion of 
the sea. 

But hear now what another poet says of her: 

“ A sea 

Of glory streams along the Alpine heights 
Of blue Friuli’s mountains.” 

And again : 

“A dying glorj 7 smiles 

O’er the far times when many a subject land 
Looked to the winged lion’s marble piles 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles” 

—and yet Lord Byron knew her only in her desola¬ 
tion, despoiled and trampled underfoot by Napoleon, 
ceded as merchandise to the Austrians, her children 
sealing their own shame by the abdication of her 



senators with the declaration amidst tears and blood 
that “Venice was no more.” 

So, standing apart from each other by the space 
of six centuries, these two men looked upon our 
beautiful city. But neither of them beheld Venice. 
The one saw only her cradle, rocked by the tempests 
of passion and war; the other—her empty place, after 
that she had arisen, and had reigned a queen, and had 
passed away. 

The Venice of which I write, however, is the 
Venice, not of the poet, the statesman, or the soldier, 
but of the painter. In a word, it is the Venice of 
Titian. It is the busy world, full of peril, but full 
also of life and light and action, and therefore bright 
with hope, to which he came, a simple lad, from the 
Alpine village of Cadore. It is the school where 
he found a master in Bellini, and companions in 
Giorgione and Palma Vecchio. It is the home 
where he entertained his friends in a pleasant garden, 
or showed them the beautiful pictures that filled his 
house, or feasted them with rare viands and costly 
wines. It is the arena where he struggled hard for 
mastery with craftsmen only less great than himself. 
It is the exchange where he made the world rich— 


the same right of pre-eminence in their own lands. 
It is the city of palaces that he made more splendid ; 
of shrines that he made more sacred; and having* 
chosen for himself a grave there, in the stately 
Church of the Frari, and fallen stricken by the 
plague, it is now his mausoleum, where, after nearly 
a hundred years of toil, and ambition, and defeat, 
and glory, he at last sleeps. 

The Venice of Titian is the Venice of a century; 
and, in Art at least, that century was the epoch 
of her greatest splendour. If the discovery of the 
passage to India by the Cape, a few years after 
his birth, marked the beginning of her decline, that 
decline can scarcely be said to have become manifest 
when, a few years before his death, the Moslem 
fleet was scattered and destroyed at the battle of 
Lepanto. During the life of Titian Venice was a 
great power in Europe, both on land and sea. Let 
us take the century of his life, decade by decade, 
illustrating each by a characteristic sketch, as one 
would develop a story by a series of outlines. At 
the best they must be slight, but the value of a 
sketch does not depend on its elaboration—it is suffi¬ 
cient for its purpose if it be true. 


Our first sketch shall be of the child’s home, a 
village in the mountainous district of Cadore, about 
seventy miles from Venice. There, at Pieve, Titian 
was born in the year 1477, and the earliest years of 
his childhood were passed face to face with Nature 
in perhaps the grandest of the many aspects she can 
assume. The castellated rocks of porphyry, the weird 
dragon’s-teeth of the dolomites, the snow mingled 
with fire as the sun rose or set beyond the hills, the 
rushing waters of the Piave, the dark forests from 
which the trees came crashing down to be floated 
away in rafts for the ship-builders of the lagoons, the 
low murmer of the wind creeping up the valleys, or 
the thunder of it when tempests brake upon the 
mountains—these were among the sights and sounds 
familiar to his boyhood, and they form the background 
of our picture. If our picture seems altogether back¬ 
ground, we must remember that in such scenery the 
small figure of a child is but of little account. Very 
little is known of the childhood of Titian. There is 
a legend of a Madonna painted by him, with colours 
expressed from flowers, on the walls of his father’s 
cottage; hut of this it is sufficient to say that it is a 
legend. We know only that at the age of nine the 
story of his child-life may be said to close, for he was 
then sent to Venice to be apprenticed as a painter; 
but we may well believe that the impressions he re¬ 
ceived during these the first nine years of his life 
were of a nature that the ninety years which followed 
served rather to deepen than to efface. 




Our second sketch is of a youth at Venice. Titian 
was of a good family, and it was not without due con¬ 
sideration that he was permitted to pursue the study 
of art, instead of arms or of law. This in itself in¬ 
dicates that the painter held no mean position in the 
Republic. At the time of his apprenticeship there 
were many masters in. Venice of great eminence. The 
two Bellini, Antonello, C'ima, Sebastian Zuccato (en¬ 
gaged in the restoration, which was even then going 
on, of the mosaics of St. Mark's), Carpaccio, and 
Vivarini—these were among the chief painters, not of 
the place only, but of the age. And just as in our 
own day we may hear the students at Heatherly's, in 
Newman Street, or at the schools of the Academy, 
talk over the “ Daphnephoria” of Leighton, or the 
“North-West Passage” of Millais, so in the work¬ 
shops of the Bellini we may see the youthful Titian 
and Giorgione and Palma Vecchio, with their com¬ 
panions, descanting on the merits of Gentile's “Pro¬ 
cession of the Relic,” or Carpaccio's “ St. Ursula.'' 
But besides the merits of the masters, these stu¬ 
dents near the Rialto have subject for discussion 
in the question of the styles. Tempera is still 
taught in the schools, but the great painters are 
beginning to discard it. Some of the old frescoes 
are still standing on the walls of the great council 
chamber. The pale “Paradise” of Guariento has not 
been covered by the more splendid “Paradise” of Tin¬ 
toretto ; but Vivarini 
has exhibited the first 
oil-painting in Venice, 
and the old style, so 
long clung to by the 
Venetians, is fast 
giving place to the 
new. In the midst 
of such a movement, 
among companions so 
worthy of him—and 
of whom one at. least, 
if only he might live, 
will prove a formidable 
rival—taught by suck 
masters as Zuccato 
and the Bellini, fas¬ 
cinated with the beauty 
of the loveliest city in 
the world, filled with 
tender memories of the 
home which lies hidden 
in the blue line of the 
distant Alps, it is thus 
that Titian begins his 
artist-life. And if in 
this second sketch, as 


in the first, we see but little of Titian himself, yet 
for the sake 

“ Of the fair town’s face, yonder river’s line, 

The mountains round it and the sky above,” 

the sketch must stand. There will not be wantin' 1 ' 


presently the interest that attaches to the living 


If in the later schools of Venetian art we see the 
scattering of the gifts of Titian amongst his successors, 
we see in the art of Titian himself the gathering into 
one of the many excellences of his contemporaries 
and of those who preceded him. And it is in the 
works of his early manhood that this gathering of his 
forces is most apparent. The daring and dangerous 
facility that seemed natural to him was held in 
check, but not destroyed, by the careful and minute 
draughtsmanship insisted upon by Giovanni Bellini. 
The result was strength, with refinement, based upon 
knowledge. How much the similarity between his 
work and that of Giorgione or of Palma Vecchio is 
due to mastery, or to assimilation, would be impossible 
to determine. A corresponding agreement will often 
be found between young painters who work much 
together. Millais and Rossetti and Holman Hunt, 
whose names were once associated in this manner, are 
wide enough apart now, nevertheless they have not 
been without influence upon each other. We know 
that Titian and Giorgione entered early into part¬ 
nership, and that though Giorgione (the senior of 
Titian by two years) took the lead, yet before Titian 
was thirty years old he was recognised as a master 
even amongst the great painters of Venice. He 
had visited the court of Ferrara, «and painted the 
picture of the “ Tribute-money,” now in the gallery 
at Dresden, and the “ Bacchus and Ariadne ” of our 
own national collection. We must think of him also 
in connection with the stirring events of the time. 
Now there were leagues with Rome and Milan 
against France : now leagues with France against 
Milan and Naples. So-called Christian popes and 
emperors and kings were intriguing with the Turks 
to let loose the hell of slaughter upon Christen¬ 
dom. Crusades were preached on the piazza of 
St. Mark's, and fifty thousand voices yelled for the 
slaughter of the Turks. Can we conceive of these 


things, and the young painter in the midst of 
them, without seeing the colour they would give 
to his life 5 So our third sketch should close, 
but that against the lurid glare of it appears one 
beautiful figure. It is said that he loved A iolante, 
the daughter of his friend Palma Vecchio. The 
story is not verified, and it is difficult to reconcile 
it with certain dates which appear to be sufficiently 
attested ; nevertheless, we trace the delicate outline 



of a woman, like the dream that comes to most 
men at some time of their lives, the dream that 
is not always realised. Violante, however, did not 
become the wife of Titian, and we know her only by 

death of one great painter, it rings with the light¬ 
hearted laughter of another. At the very time that 
Giorgione and Titian were preparing for the last 
work they should execute together, Albert Diirer, 


the soft lustre of her eyes and the white garments 
folded across her bosom. 


At the age of thirty Titian was assisting 
Giorgione in the decoration of the Fondaco, a 
government building that had been re-constructed 
after a great fire. They painted in fresco; but 
Venice, with its burning summers and keen winters, 
its humid and salt atmosphere, can be as cruel as 
our London of yellow fog and black smoke. There 
is little left at the Fondaco to tell us whether, 
while working together as friends, they were pur¬ 
suing the same path as painters, or were gradually 
differentiating their styles. It is said that Giorgione 
drew his inspiration from the antique, while Titian 
relied less on classic beauty and more on the faithful 
representation of Nature. We know what Titian 
accomplished, but to what splendours his companion 
might have attained we shall never know. The face 
of Giorgione fades out of our picture at this time. 
He died in 1511, at the early age of thirty-three. 
But if the Venice of Titian in the first years of 
the century is touched with the melancholy of the 

then on a visit to Venice, was corresponding with his 
friend, “good master Pirkheimer,” of Nuremberg. 
“ My French mantle and my Italian coat greet you, 
both of them/” he writes ; " I wish you were in 
Venice. There are many fine fellows here among 
the painters, who get more and more friendly with 
me ; it holds one’s heart up. Well brought-up folks, 
good lute-players, skilled pipers, and many noble and 
excellent people are in the company. On the other 
hand, there are the falsest, most lying, thievish 
villains in the whole world, I believe, appearing to 
the unwary the pleasantest possible fellows. I laugh 
to myself when they try it with me. They say my 
art is not on the antique, and therefore not good. 
But Giovanni Bellini, who has praised me much 
before many gentlemen, wishes to have something 
from my hand. He has come himself and asked 
me, and he will pay me handsomely for it. I under¬ 
stand he is a pious man. He is very old indeed, and 
yet the best amongst them. But what pleased me 
eleven years ago does not give me the same pleasure 
now; there are better painters here.” Thus writes 
Albert Diirer, of the Venice of Titian, living 
amongst the people, visiting the studies, quarrelling 



with the painters; and we cr.n find no picture move 
faithful than that which he has thus sketched for 
us, and playfully signed —“ Given at Venice, at 9 
of the evening, Saturday after Candlemas in the 
year 1506.” IIow he did quarrel, how carefully he 
counted his ducats, how bright a place Venice seemed 
to him, how keenly he felt the splendour of Venetian 
co'our, how susceptible he was as an artist, how 
intractable as a man—all this comes out so naively 
in his correspondence with his friend, and at the 
same time gives so vivid an impression of Venice 
as he knew it, that I will lay down my pen for 
the moment that he may finish the sketch in 
his own words :—“ The painters are becoming very 
obnoxious to me. They have had me before the 
courts three times, and compelled me to pay four 
good florins to their guild. All the world wishes me 
well except the painters! You would give a ducat 
to see my picture, it is so good and rich in colour. I 
have silenced all the painters who say ‘ he composes 
well, but knows little about colour/ Indeed, every 
one praises my colour. But I must tell you, I have 
actually been to learn dancing here, and have been 
twice to the school. I must pay the 'master a 
ducat. Nobody could get me into it, however, so 
I have lost all my trouble, and can do nothing, alas! 
How shall I live in Nuremberg after the bright sun 
of Venice?” 


Our fifth sketch shows us a painter’s studio 
in Venice, into which the sunshine of a spring 
morning is streaming. A man of grave mien is 
standing there ; he is reading a letter, and as he 
reads, his brow knits, and he is angry. It is Titian, 
and the letter in his hand is from Alplionso, the 
great Duke of Ferrara, upbraiding him wrathfully, 
and threatening the direst displeasure if he does 
not make haste to finish a picture he has promised. 
Presently the painter turns to some canvases and 
unfinished sketches, and, bringing them to the light, 
examines them carefully. There is the portrait of 
Lucretia Borgia, and of Laura Dianti, and of the 
Duke himself, with “ black, curly locks, pointed 
moustache, and well-trimmed beard of chestnut, with 
broad forehead, arched brow, and clear eye, altogether 
noble in attitude and proportion.” As Titian looks 
at the face, his anger cools, and he resolves to pro¬ 
pitiate his friend. But there are other portraits there, 
of senators, doges, fair youths, beautiful women, and 
chief amongst them that of Ariosto the poet, digni¬ 
fied, serene, yet full of the brilliancy of intellectual 
life —“ a figure of noble port, with neck and throat 
exposed, fine features, handsomely set off by a spare 
beard and long chestnut hair divided in the middle.” 
Suddenly is heard the sound of church bells clashing 

through the bright air, and Titian, hastily replacing 
the canvases and laying aside the Duke’s letter, pre¬ 
pares to leave the studio. Passing through the busy 
crowds on the Rialto, he enters a gondola, which, 
threading its way amongst the pleasure-boats on the 
Grand Canal, turns into one of the narrow water¬ 
ways on the right, and soon reaches the steps of a 
great church. It is the Church of the Frari, and a 
great company are assembled to witness the unveiling 
of a new altar-piece. There, in the rich gloom of the 
great chancel-arches, is the figure of the Virgin borne 
on a cloud of angels, her face uplifted to the Eternal, 
who bends over her from the empyrean ; beneath 
are the Apostles, lost in wonder at the glory of her 
assumption. It is a masterpiece of art, and the 
people are stirred to enthusiasm. The music thunders 
through the aisles of the Frari and creeps along the 
vaulted roof, where the incense has already climbed 
to meet it. And as Titian stands amongst the crowd, 
looking at his own painting, and listening to their 
murmurs of delight, he knows that after the patient 
toil of nearly half a century he has reached the first 
great triumph of his life. 


Let us picture to ourselves a meeting of the 
guild of painters in the Venice of Titian. It is 
about the year 1532, and their new hall has just 
been erected through the munificent bequest of 
Catena, a painter, who has just died. In this hall 
are assembled not painters only, but designers, 
gilders, embroiderers, and men of every craft in 
which the leading idea is Art. Among the first to 
enter we may imagine the young Moroni, and per¬ 
haps Bassano; they are of the same age, about 
twenty-two years; and they have caught so much 
of the spirit of Titian that the time may come when 
some of their work may be mistaken for that of the 
great master. As they enter, they are speaking of 
the recent death of Palma Vecchio, in whose work¬ 
shops they were perhaps students. They are pre¬ 
sently joined by Paris Bordone, their senior by a few 
years, but still young—one who had studied under 
Giorgione, and can tell them much about the splendid 
young genius who (had he lived) would have made 
the greatest tremble for their laurels ; as to himself, 
he is expecting shortly to be invited to the French 
Court. And if he asks them “ whether Pordenone 
is coming to-night,” they may perhaps tell him 
“ no,” for he is at Piacenza, painting frescoes for the 
Church of Santa Maria; and one of them may suggest 
the question whether he, Pordenone, may not get 
himself into trouble with the pious monks there, if he 
persists in mixing up his virgins and nymphs, satyrs 
and saints, all on the same canvas. And now other 
painters crowd into the assembly—Bonifazio, who is 



late (for he has been working long hours at his 
painting of “ The Cleansing of the Temple'” in the 
Ducal Palace), and, it may be, Carpaccio and Tin¬ 
toretto ; but if so, the one will be a venerable 
senior, and the other a stripling not yet out of 
his teens, but such a stripling in art as was 
David in war. There are many more of the guild, 
but we take note only of the painters. Of all 
the company, however (painters or craftsmen of 
whatever sort), there are two men standing in 
their midst to whom we turn with the deepest in¬ 
terest. They are nearly of the same age, between 
fifty and sixty, and both of them are of grave 
countenance. The one is Titian, the glory of Venice; 
the other is Michael Angelo, the glory of Florence 
and Rome. Titian is a man strongly built, full of 
life and movement; the proportions of his face are 
perfect, the forehead high, the brow bold and pro¬ 
jecting, the features finely chiselled. Round his 
neck is the chain which indicates his knightly rank. 
He is dressed in a closely-buttoned doublet, over 
which is cast an ample cloak, showing beneath it a 
broad white collar, and sleeves of silver damask. 
There is a marked likeness between these two men— 
Titian and Angelo—in the fire of their eyes, the 
■boldness of their brows, even in the lines of their 
beards, worn a little short and pointed, and the fine¬ 
ness of the hands which grasp each other in friend¬ 
ship. Angelo is visiting Venice, and is greeted by 
Titian, as Gferome or Meissonier might be greeted by 
Leighton or Millais if they visited us. And when 
the last gracious words have been spoken, and the 
assembly is dissolved, these two return to Titian’s 
house. They stand for a moment looking into each 
other’s eyes before they separate for the night, and 
Angelo says some words which we cannot hear. If 
we could hear them we should know why Titian 
turns so sadly away to his solitary chamber, for they 
would tell us that another face has faded out of the 
picture of his life, that the years which have brought 
riches and honour have taken from him his wife and 
the mother of his children. 


* Extract from a letter written by Priscianese to a 
friend in Rome, in the year 1540, Priscianese being 
at that time a visitor in Venice. It comes from 
“ Titian, his Life and Times,” by Messrs. Crowe and 
Cavalcaselle, ii. 40, 41 

“ I was invited on the day of the calends of 
August to celebrate a sort of Bacchanalian feast in a 
pleasant garden belonging to Messer Tiziano Vecellio, 
an excellent painter, as every one knows, and a person 
really fitted to season by his courtesies any distin¬ 
guished entertainment. There were assembled with 
the said M. Tiziano, as like desires like, some of the 

most celebrated characters that are now in this city, 
and of ours chiefly M. Pietro Aretino, a new miracle 
of nature ; and next to him as great an imitator of 
nature with the chisel as the master of the feast is 
with the pencil, Messer Jacopo Tatti, called II San¬ 
sovino ; and M. Jacopo Nardi, and I; so that I made 
the fourth amidst so much wisdom. Here, before the 
tables were set out, because the sun, in spite of the 
shade, still made his heat much felt, we spent the 
time in looking at the lively figures in the excellent 
pictures of which the house was full, and in dis¬ 
cussing the real beauty and charm of the garden, 
with singular pleasure and note of admiration of 
all of us. It is situated in the extreme part of 
Venice, upon the sea, and from it one sees the pretty 
little island of Murano and other beautiful places. 
This part of the sea, as soon as the sun went 
down, swarmed with gondolas adorned with beautiful 
women, and resounded with the varied harmony and 
music of voices and instruments, which till midnight 
accompanied our delightful supper. But to return to 
the garden. It was so well laid out and so beautiful, 
and consequently so much praised, that the resem¬ 
blance which it offered to the delicious retreat of 
St. Agata refreshed my memory and my wish to see 
you, and it was hard for me, dearest friends, during 
the greater part of the evening to realise whether 
I was at Rome or at Venice. In the meanwhile came 
the hour for supper, which was no less beautiful and 
well arranged than copious and well provided. Be¬ 
sides the most delicate viands and precious wines, 
there were all those pleasures and amusements that 
are suited to the season, the guests, and the feast. 
Having just arrived at the fruit, your letter came, 
and because in praising the Latin language the 
Tuscan was reproved, Aretino became exceedingly 
angry, and, if he had not been prevented, he would 
have indited one of the most cruel invectives in the 
world, calling out furiously for paper and inkstand, 
though he did not fail to do a good deal in words. 
Finally the supper ended most gaily.” 


And still the Venice of Titian is growing more 
beautiful under the touch of this magician’s hand. 
“ Justitia ” with the waving sword has for a long 
time been a familiar sight at the Fondaco, and the 
“ Assumption of the Virgin ” over the altar in the 
Church of the Frari, lighted by a thousand tapers, 
glows with a splendour almost inconceivable. But 
how many more splendours have been added to these. 
The “ Christ Bearing the Cross ” at the monastery 
of St. Andrea; the organ frontal at the Gesuati 
(long since, like so many other of his works, de¬ 
stroyed by fire); the “Jerome” of St. Fantino; the 
“Annunciation” and the “St. Peter Martyr” at 



SS. Giovanni e Paolo; the “Angel and Tobit” at 
Santa Caterina; the “Descent of the Holy Ghost” 
in San Spirito; to say nothing of the mosaics of 
St. Mark's, for which he made the cartoons, and the 
g'reat canvases of the Ducal Palace. Titian, during 
the eighth decade of his life, is like a star in a 
constellation still shining after its fellows have set. 
Raphael has died, Correggio has 
died. Da Vinci has died, and though 
Angelo lingers in Rome, he has for 
a long time painted only for the 
Imperial city. Madrid and Paris 
and Augsburg clamour for the work 
of Titian, alternately threatening 
and persuading because his pencil 
cannot satisfy all their demands. 

The g rave ecclesiastics at the Coun¬ 
cil of Trent turn from their anathe¬ 
mas to scan the last canvas from 
his hand; while in London the 
foreign prince, mated to an English 
queen whom he does not love, 
amuses himself with the “ Mag- 
dalens ” and “Antiopes,” who do 
not fret him with complainings. 

As for Titian himself, he is getting 
old; his house has been twice de¬ 
solated, first by the marriage of his 
daughter, then by her death; and 
his son, Pomponio, the canon, there 
is trouble for him there, for he is a 
spendthrift. And then, that young 
painter Tintoretto, who is at work 
in the Ducal Palace!—is it not 
time to begin to ask what will the 
end be? 


But the end is not yet. Ten 
more years have passed away, and 
Vasari is a visitor in Venice. As 
we have read from the letters of 
Diirer the painter, and of Pris- 
cianese the scholar, so let us turn 
for a moment to the record of the 
historian. “Titian has enjoyed health and happiness 
unequalled, and has never received from Heaven any¬ 
thing but favour and felicity. His house has been 
visited by all the princes, men of letters, and gentle¬ 
men who ever came to Venice. Besides being excel¬ 
lent in art, he is pleasant company, of fine deportment 
and agreeable manners. He has had rivals in Venice, 
but none of any great talent. His earnings have been 
large, because his works were always well paid; but 
it would have been well for him if in these the later 
years of his life he had only laboured for a pastime, 
in order not to lose, by works of declining value, the 

reputation gained in earlier days. When Vasari, 
writer of this history, came to Venice in 1566, he 
went to pay a visit to Titian as a friend, and he 
found him, though very aged, with the brushes in 
Ins hand painting, and had much pleasure in seeing 
his pictures and conversing with him. Titian having 
decorated Venice, and indeed Italy and other parts 


of the world with admirable pictures, deserves to 
lie loved and studied by artists, as one who has 
done and is still doing works deserving of praise, 
which will last as long as the memory of illustrious 


The last sketch—and it is once more in the 
Church of the Frari. Troubles are gathering heavily 
on the Venice of Titian. The Great Council have, 
indeed, ordered that a picture of the victory of 
Lepanto shall be painted; but that victory has cost 
Venice her life-blood. And now Pestilence, following 



the footsteps of War, is wielding its bloody scourge, 
and nearly a third of the citizens have been swept into 
the charnel-house. An old man, bent with the weight 
of ninety-and-nine years, is in the sacristy, talking 
with the monks. He is pleading with them, he is 
disputing with them. “ Dear to me," he says —“ dear 
to me are the mountains of Cadore, and the rushing 
waters of the Piave, and the murmur of the wind in 
the pine-trees, where my home lies far away. But 
not there ! In the city where I have laboured; in 
the church where 1 achieved my first triumph— 
bury me there ! Promise to bury me there, and I 
will yet live to paint for you another f Christ/ a 
‘ Christ of Pity/ that shall be more near to what 
He is, than any that has yet been painted, even 
as I am by so many years the nearer to seeing Him 

The plague struck him down before the “ Pieta 77 
was finished, but the promise was redeemed. Titian 
lies beneath the crucifix in the Church of the Frari 
at Venice. 

With Titian died the glory of Venetian art. But 
as the setting sun is sometimes followed by an after¬ 
glow—a lingering that is of light, not really brighter 


than the horizon has been during the day, but seem¬ 
ing brighter because the rest of the firmament is 
darkening into night—so, after Titian, we still turn 
towards Venice for the sake of two painters who 
were at least worthy to be his companions to the 
last, and who, in surviving him, arrested for another 
decade the extinction of the great Venetian school. 
Twelve years after Titian, in 1588, Paul Veronese 
died, and in another six years, Tintoretto. Then even 
the short after-glow faded, and the night set in. A 
night that the pale starlight of Salviati, Giovane, 
Padovanino, Canaletto, and Tiepolo could not illu¬ 
minate ; a night not pleasant to look back upon; a 
night disturbed by evil dreams; but happily a night 
that has at last ended. In 1645 Venice was again 
at war. The old enemy, the Turk, had descended 
upon Candia, and for twenty-four years the nation 
which had been so great in art became the cynosure 
of Europe for its feats in arms. Volunteers from 
every country came there to exercise their valour, to 
acquire the military art, and to assist a brave people. 
The siege cost the lives of two hundred thousand 
Moslems, but the Venetians capitulated at last. A 
few years of respite followed, and then another war, 
in which, though the Republic was victorious, her re¬ 
sources were exhausted ; and finally, while the dawn 
was still far distant, at the close of the eighteenth 
century, Venice, which had sold its nobility as mer¬ 
chandise, was itself sold as merchandise to the 

It is a terrible story, and belongs rather to the 
pages of History than to the literature of Art. But 
when the unworthy descendants of a Dandolo sur¬ 
render without a struggle the independence of a 
thousand years, it is vain to look amongst them for 
men more worthy to be the successors of a Titian. 
When the Queen of the Adriatic is content to see 
her “ Golden Book/ 7 the record of her senators, 
burned in the market-place, it is time for “ three 
ships of the line and two frigates 77 to sail out of 
her harbours laden with spoils of the richest of her 
treasures of Art. Is there—can there be—an ending 
to such a night as this ? 

Yes, the dawn has come at last. Venice has been 
redeemed. It is indeed no more the Venice of Titian, 
any more than it is the Venice of Dante or of Byron. 
It is the Venice of the new world, not of the old. It 
is the Venice of Italy. All that is beautiful in the 
eyes of the painter is still there ; all that is dear 
to the poet is to be remembered of her. But the 
glory which streams along the heights of blue 
Friuli 7 s mountains is no longer a dying glory, but 
a living. For the sons of Italy are once more 
united and strong. Plow then can it be otherwise 
with her daughters than that they shall be happy 
and safe ? Wyke Bayliss. 




I F, as was contended in a recent article in these 
pages, the ideal way of introducing pictures into 
the decoration of a room is to have them painted for 
the prominent places they are to occupy, the actual 
practice of to-day is quite contrary to this. Per¬ 
manent decoration is rather shunned than sought. 
We seem to be reverting to the original type, and 
becoming more and more nomadic in our mode of life. 
The modern notion of a dwelling-house is something 
very far removed from an epic in stone or an idyll 
in brick—rather it takes the shape of a roof over 
one's head and a momentary resting-place. We may 
not he altogether satisfied with this solution of the 
building question, but neither can we iguore the fact 
that we live in an age when things appear to be in 
that state of transition which does not encourage art 
of anything like a monumental character ; and, if the 
house of the future is to be only a kind of more 
substantial tent, cabinet pictures will form the most 
portable, and therefore the fittest, decoration for it. 

In hanging pictures in a room we have to consider 
two tilings—the pictures and the room. A painter 
might, perhaps, be found rash enough to say that 
only the pictures deserve to be taken into considera¬ 
tion ; but no artist would say so. That the room 
alone should be thought of is an absurdity beyond 
the conception even of a nineteenth century aesthete. 
A bother the effect of the pictures or of the room is 
of more importance will depend upon the quality of 
Vi pictures, and the value attached to them by the 
owner. But the very fact that the pictures are to be 
hung, presupposes that they are, in the owner's eyes, 
at least, worth hanging, and that being so, they 
ought by no means to be sacrificed to the general 
decorative effect. If they were of no more import¬ 
ance than that, the whole advice to those who 
contemplated hanging them would best be summed 
up in a recommendation to leave them unhung. 

Assuming that pictures are to be hung, we must 
assume also, for argument's sake, however little the 
assumption may be justified by the facts, that the 
owner is interested in them, and would like to see 
them to advantage. The question is, how can this 
best be done without sacrificing the room to them 
altogether? He may well want to have his pictures 
about him without being prepared to make them his 
only care, however good they may be. The problem 
of how to hang pictures maybe amplified into this :— 
How, in a moderate-sized room, lighted probably from 
one side by one or more windows, which do not extend 
quite up to the cornice, the walls pierced by one or 

more doors, and m places occupied by necessary 
furniture, so to arrange a certain number of pictures 
that individually each is placed in a good light, and 
collectively they contribute to the decorative effect 
of the room ? 

The first step towards a solution of the difficulty 
will be to inquire as to how much of the wall- 
space is sufficiently lighted; that alone is available 
for pictures. Decoration may be painted in any 
key, subdued in the light to almost tenderness, or 
forced up in dark corners to a pitch of brightness that 
would be unendurable in ordinary daylight; but a 
picture in order to be seen must be in a good light, 
and it is a cruel injustice to the artist to hang it in 
any other. About the lightest place in such a room 
as has just been described is usually the floor, but we 
cannot very well put our pictures there. Nor can we 
hang them on the lowermost part of the walls, where, 
though the light is good enough, they would be 
occasionally hidden by the furniture, and perpetually 
subject to injury. Excepting in a gallery, we do 
not find pictures “ floored " in this manner, but very 
often we do find them placed so high up in a room as 
to be what artists call “ skied," when such a fate 
happens to their works in an exhibition. There is no 
excuse for this. It is more tiresome to look at them 
in such a position than if they were next the floor; 
and instead of the light reflected from the floor, they 
get all the shadow of the ceiling. It will not do to 
dogmatise—a room may be so situated that light is 
reflected into it in the most unexpected manner. It 
may, for example, face a white wall, on which the 
sun shines, and is reflected tlieuce on to the ceiling in 
such a way that that is the lightest part of the room ; 
but, as a rule, there is in a room only a horizontal 
band of wall-space between the ceiling and the floor 
fit for the hanging of pictures. This band is further 
removed from the ceiling than from the floor; the 
centre of it is about on a level with the eye of the 
spectator as he stands, say five feet or five feet six 
inches from the ground. The blunder of hanging 
pictures too high is as common as that of hanging 
them too low is rare. The picture-hanger who 
hesitates between two levels will be tolerably safe in 
deciding upon the lower. It will be all the better 
for the paintings if there is only a single row of 
them on the line. They will then, of course, be 
fixed on the exact level that suits them, and the 
eye will not be diverted to other works above or 
below them. Whether there is room, however, for 
two or three tiers of frames, will depend upon the 



height and lighting of the room, and the size of 
the works themselves. It is not often that there is 
space for a triple band, even where the works are 
small. The smaller they are, the less will they 
bear to be removed very far from the level of the 
eye. Now and then a bolder painting than the rest 
will hold its own even when placed above the line 
that suits them; and such a deviation from the 
formal arrangement prescribed by practical con¬ 
siderations forms a welcome break in the monotony 
of the wall - surface; but for the most part, if pic¬ 
tures are to be seen, and well seen, they must be on 
the line of sight. The danger of monotony in this 
arrangement is not so great as might be feared. The 
picture-band cannot, under any circumstances, run 
right round the room. Not only do windows, doors, 
and furniture intervene, but there are spaces between 
the windows and at their sides, as well as in the 
angles of the room, into which the light does not 
penetrate fully, where it would be sheer waste to hide 
pictures. On the wall opposite the light, also, there 
is usually a space, more especially if there be two 
windows and consequent cross-lights, where a painting 
is not fairly seen, and where it would be better to 
place a mirror, or a cabinet, or whatever else may be 
convenient. There is in most rooms less wall-space fit 
for oil-paintings than for water-colours. The latter, 
being usually brighter and purer in colour, absorb less 
light and are less difficult to place. Water-colours, 
moreover, are, by consent of custom, more habitually 
placed in the drawing-room—a light room in itself— 
where the pictures are chiefly seen by what we shall 
call “ candle-light,” though it is commonly gas; 
so that the consideration of daylight-effect is of 
less consequence. If there is injustice to the art of 
the water-colour painter in thus assuming that his 
works may with propriety be placed so as best to be 
seen by a light for which they were not painted, the 
injustice is on the part of those who so place them. 
It is not fair to a fine picture to banish it to a 
room where you seldom sit by day. But neither is 
it altogether logical, if you do hang paintings in a 
room that you only inhabit by night, to hang them 
according to the light under which you never see 
them. The man who has purchased a picture 
usually thinks that when he has paid for it he 
owes nothing to the artist, and that he is at liberty 
to put it to the use that best pleases himself. We 
have no right to expect of men the sentiment of 
gratitude to the painter, or of tenderness for his 
repute. Many a busy man, again, has little or no 
opportunity of enjoying his art-treasures by day: 
should he, therefore, be debarred from the pleasure 
of possessing them? All things considered, there 
may be just excuse for hanging pictures for night 
effect; but fuller justice will naturally be done to 

them, and further enjoyment, of course, afforded by 
them, when they are arranged so as to be seen under 
the most favourable conditions of ordinary daylight. 

An important consideration is the treatment of 
the wall-space between the frames. The character 
and colour that best suits the pictures is not at all, as 
a matter of course, that which is most desirable for 
the rest of the wall-surface. Almost as a rule, it 
will be convenient to have a slightly darker colour 
below the pictures; indeed, the dado may often be 
considerably deeper in colour; and even when the 
tint that forms the background to the pictures is best 
carried up to the cornice, the pattern which is appro¬ 
priate as a mere filling between the frames may be 
too insignificant and uninteresting for the breadth of 
wall above. 

A very good plan is to separate the picture belt 
from the upper and lower wall-spaces by simple 
mouldings of wood, and the more deliberately we do 
this, the more safely we can treat it with a view to 
the value of the pictures. The colour that helps 
them may absorb so much light that if it were carried 
all over the walls we should feel the want of the rays 
that a lighter upper wall would reflect. On the other 
hand, the light wall-colour that alone would make 
white picture mounts endurable would in many in¬ 
stances be too cold and naked-looking as it neared the 
floor, and every article of furniture stood out in sharp 
relief against it. Painters differ as to the colour that 
is safest as a background for oil-paintings. Deep 
dull red was for many years the tone most in vogue; 
of late there has been a re-action in favour of neutral 
green. A yellowish-brown, as nearly as possible the 
equivalent to gold in shadow, serves the purpose ad¬ 
mirably ; some shades of the common brown paper 
used for parcels are not far removed from the colour 
that is meant, and artists have sometimes dared to 
cover the walls on which their pictures hang with 
that very material. Whatever the colour adopted, it 
is easier to arrive at a satisfactory effect by breaking 
it. This is easily done by the use of a somewhat 
vague pattern in a tint only slightly removed from 
the ground. What is known as a damask pattern 
will suggest the character of design. This may be 
either stencilled or printed, according as the wall is 
painted or papered. Anything more than stencilling 
as a background to pictures is labour lost; and by 
stencilling, the softest effects of diapering may be pro¬ 
duced. An artist will sometimes dab down part of 
the pattern here and there, leaving it blurred, indis¬ 
tinct, sometimes almost obliterated, so producing an 
effect of softly varied colour that could be produced 
by no merely mechanical process. What is known as 
“ painted flock" serves also admirably as a background. 
This has most of the artistic advantages without the 
disadvantages which medical science has discovered 



in the ordinary flock. It is in the first instance flock 
paper, only printed three or four times over until the 
pattern is raised considerably above the ground. After 
it is fixed on the walls it is painted. The flock absorbs 
several coats of paint, but when one that is well dry 
it is as hard as the wall itself and may be scrubbed if 
necessary. It has the economic advantage that at any 
time a coat of paint will bring it back to its original 
freshness, and the artistic merit that the inequality 
of its surface insures “ broken ” colour ; the pattern 
is sufficiently shown without asserting itself. 

It; only the picture band is to be treated it would 
really not be a great- extravagance to gild the wall 
between the pictures. This is at once the most obvious 
way of connecting the gold frames, the richest decora¬ 
tion for the walls, and the most sympathetic setting 
for pictures. If the surface of the wall were first 
sanded, or in any other way roughened, the effect 
would not appear too gorgeous, where the pictures 
were tolerably close together. And there would not 
be much of it to be done. There would be no occasion 
to gild the wall behind the pictures. As a principle 
of decoration one would not advocate the leaving un¬ 
done any small wall-space that might be hidden—but 
the filling up of the interstices between pictures is 
quite another thing from the scamping of wall-spaces 
that may not be seen. It might be desirable to 
diaper such a gold ground as has been described; or 
the entire wall could be painted gold-colour, and only 
the spaces between the frames diapered with a pattern 
in gold. 

In a drawing-room in which the pictures were 
set in gold frames with white mounts, the wall-sur¬ 
face about them might be white or white and gold, 
the space above being still white with ornament in 
delicate shades of pure colour. These might be made 
tolerably bright without danger of offence, for the 
shadow in which the cornice and upper walls are 
thrown would soften them considerably. 

One can conceive an effect of decoration where the 
pictures are so closely put together (exhibition fashion) 
that they form a kind of Venetian mosaic in which 
the slabs are not of marble, but of canvas. But it 
would be a degradation of the art of the painter to 
reduce it to the value of a mere patch of colour on 
the wall, and a needless one when that effect may 
be produced by such very simple means indeed. The 
appearance of lavisbness is sometimes gratifying, but 
the evidence of waste is always offensive. 

The custom still lingers among us of tilting pic¬ 
tures forward. So placed they get the advantage of 
some light reflected from the floor upon them. The 
effect of the over-hanging frames is, however, so 
objectionable that it must be indeed a fine picture 
that will justify such a sacrifice of all decorative 
effect to it. Where a great number of pictures are 

concerned, it would be worth while, perhaps, to try 
the experiment of a sloping wall-space between 
dado and upper wall. The pictures placed upon this 
would not, individually, have the unpleasant effect 
of falling forward, and the frames would not cast 
gigantic shadows on the wall. The slight slope of 
the wall itself would, in all probability, be scarcely 
noticeable. There would, it is true, be a ledge 
above it which might be gratefully accepted as an 
opportune shelf for porcelain, terra-cotta, and the 
like, or condemned from the beginning as a “dust 
trap,” according as one were bitten with the aesthetic 
or the sanitary mania. But this last objection might 
be overcome at the sacrifice of a few inches of the 
room by bringing the wall above it forward. This 
would necessitate a new cornice to the room, the 
old one being hidden, but it is not often that 
a room is crowned with a cornice that we need 
have any qualms about sacrificing. Of course there 
would needs be a small cornice (perhaps gilded) to 
mark the termination of the picture band, as well 
as a chair-rail below it. If these were skilfully 
managed, the transition from perpendicular to slant¬ 
ing could scarcely offend; and the pictures would 
certainly benefit by the expedient. The considera¬ 
tion of expense stands in the way of this experiment 
being tried; but it would not be a very ruinous 
operation. In comparison with the cost of a single 
picture it would be almost inappreciable. One is in¬ 
clined to marvel how a man who pays princely prices 
for paintings can be so little princely as to begrudge 
them a fair setting. But wonder ceases when we 
reflect how few pictures are bought for the love of 
them, how few come into the possession of those who 
would appreciate them at their real value, without 
reference to the name of the painter or the security of 
the investment. The hanging of every picture should 
be matter of actual experiment; mere consideration 
is not enough. A wise picture-lover would seldom 
purchase a picture without having a clear notion of 
where he could hang it, and trying the effect of it 
in a light similar to that for which he intended it. 

It may be said, in conclusion, that to hang 
pictures fairly, we must limit the number of them 
in our rooms. Does any one really want his walls 
plastered with them like a patchwork of big postage 
stamps ? It is seldom that a man finds at a modern 
exhibition more than a few pictures that he really 
and lastingly longs to possess. Of these, some 
prove to be already sold, others are perhaps beyond 
his means, so that the number of works interesting 
him intensely, which he can possibly acquire, is re¬ 
duced to a minimum. It may be some consolation 
to think that this minimum of pictures he will 
probably find no difficulty in placing advantageously 
on his walls. Lewis F. Day. 



I RON-WORK for domestic use in the internal 
arrangements, and in a measure as part of the 
furniture, or at least the fittings, of the houses of the 
period included within the dates from the fourteenth 
to the eighteenth centuries, presents many valuable 
and interesting features alike to the artist as to the 
archaeologist. No doubt many of the objects then in 
every-day use, and almost necessary to the comfort 
of the class of society in which the best examples 
were to be found, have been superseded by articles of 
a more convenient construction, made of materials 
more suitable to their use. Jewel-caskets and iron 
chests, for example, may be quoted as not at all 
likely to have any revival in these days. Some¬ 
thing equally—possibly even more—secure from sur¬ 
reptitious investigation has taken the place of the 
cumbrous objects belonging to the periods above 
mentioned; and whilst the art displayed in the 
modern decoration of such objects may be anything 
but satisfactory, yet convenience has its claims 
to attention, and in the multiplicity of wants in 
an age like our own, economy of time, and con¬ 
sequently of cost, becomes a compulsory matter. 
Hence we dispense with the elaborate decoration 
of a deed or plate chest, and simple security is 
all that we care to think of in connection with 
a repository for our valuables. 

The iron coffer numbered 4,255—*66 in the 
South Kensington Museum is a notable example' 
of this class of decorative wrought iron. It is 
Nuremberg work of the early part of the eighteenth 
century, and illustrates the “ safes of 
the period.** It shows how these re¬ 
positories for valuables of all kinds 
were regarded as essentially a portion 
of the furniture of a well-garnished 
house, and that they were made, not 
to put away in corners or out-of-the- 
way places, but to stand as ornaments, 
as well as objects of use, in 
prominent positions; the locks, 
bolts, and bars with which they 
were furnished being a suf¬ 
ficient justification for regard¬ 
ing them as safe from prying 
curiosity or the arts of the thief 
in relation to their contents. 

Such objects were thought 
worthy of the best ability of 
the artist-smiths of the centuries 
we have already indicated. 


This example, of which we give an illustration on 
p. 64, is decorated on the top with applique scroll-work 
in repousse, admirably designed and executed. These 
scrolls are adapted to the shapes of the panels formed 
by the flat bands of iron which are themselves incised 
with scroll ornaments, the bands giving strength to 
the top of the coffer, and thus forming a detail in 
the decoration. From the cover of the key-hole, or 
rather of the escutcheon which surrounds it in the 
centre of the top—this cover being formed of a mask 
in repousse —an ornament starts which forms a rosette. 
The scrolled details of this ornament run into the 
four panels constituting the central compartments, 
two panels at each end of the lid completing the 
design. The border-band of each is decorated with 
scroll-work and rosettes in bold relief; and studs, also 
in high relief, complete the details of the ornamenta¬ 
tion—the effect being rich and singularly appropriate. 
The sides and ends are also decorated and panelled, 

GERMAN CASKET. ( 16th Century.) 

the panel-bands being- incised and studded. Boldly 
designed forged handles complete the two ends. The 
front is of the same character, while two ornamental 
clasps in chiselled iron-work form an excellent pad¬ 
lock staple. Both angles of the front are decorated 
with forged spirals fixed as columns, and rising from 
brackets resting on the front feet. The body of the 
coffer is supported on a stand admirably designed and 
executed; it is composed of four feet with chiselled 
iron scrolls in forged work issuing from the angles 
formed by each foot, which at once strengthen 
the support and add to the decorative effect of 
the work. The lock is, as usual in these coffers, 
inside the lid, and covers the whole space except the 
margin corresponding to the rim round the inside 
of the upper edges of the chest. This margin is 
decorated with a foliated tooth-like ornament, the 
lock itself projecting from it. The design of the lock- 
plate is executed in perforated sheet-iron, polished, 
and is divided into two panels, with a boss in the 
centre corresponding to the key-hole. In one panel 
is a double-headed eagle with an imperial crown, 
surrounded by a bold foliated ornament. The breast 
of the eagle bears a shield charged with two keys 
crossed and a hammer—a device of the maker. En¬ 
graved on the outer rim in German is, “ This lock 
has been made by Benedict Hilcl, locksmith.” In the 
other panel a similar ornament surrounds the facade 
of a palace. The details of these ornaments, as also of 
the eagle and palace, are admirably etched. The date 
is quoted inside, 1716. The lock has eighteen bolts, 
which shoot under the inside rim already mentioned. 

The coffers of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and 
early part of the eighteenth centuries differed con¬ 
siderably in various countries and localities, alike 
m construction and decoration. The example just 
quoted is of a class in which the whole design is 
legitimately adapted to iron, alike in construction 
and decoration. In Germany, Flanders, and some¬ 
times in England, coffers of comparatively plain 
construction, being simply an iron chest body, 
bound round by broad bands of iron riveted through 
the construction plates, were in common use. Not 
unfrequently they were painted and gilt, the bands 
being of one colour, and the panels formed by these 
bauds being of another; the rivets were gilt, and 
the edges of the bands “ picked out” either in gold 
or in some darker colour than that of the panels 
or the bands themselves. Sometimes the panels 
were filled with painted devices, heraldic or sym¬ 
bolical, and at others a series of heads formed the 
decoration. Occasionally a whole subject, historical 
or religious, was represented, and intercepted only 
by the bands passing over it; for, as already stated, 
these chests were important pieces of furniture in 
well-appointed houses, and were rendered as decorative 
as possible, the finest being invariably those which, 
like our illustrative example, were the work of artist- 
smiths, and iron-work alike in construction and 

As another example of this class, the casket 
figured on page 61 (No. 396—’51), of sixteenth cen¬ 
tury German work, is of great interest. It is formed 
of plates of metal riveted together at the angles. 



these angles being covered with decorated framing 
plates, cut to an ornamental profile, which unite with 
broader plates of a similar character running round 
the base of the casket, and form an ornamental foot 
or rest for the whole. The surface decorations con¬ 
sist of an elaborate series of floriated designs with 
birds introduced in the central portion, the borders 
consisting of cartouches. The top is decorated in a 
similar manner, the whole having been bitten into 
the surface with a strong acid in the manner of 
etching, and suggesting a damascened effect, but 
without the insertion of gold 
or silver. The angle plates 
and the foot plates are riveted 
upon the panels, and the 
rivets are so distributed as to 
aid the ornamental effect as 
studs. The lock is in the 
inside of the top, covering 
the whole surface, the key¬ 
hole being in the middle. 

The details of this lock are very 
decorative, being cut into admir¬ 
ably designed plates covering the 
angles of the bolt springs. There 
are seven bolts, all being shot simul¬ 
taneously by the turn of the key, 
and they act as claw bolts under 
the inside projecting rim of the in¬ 
terior, and make the casket and its 
contents very secure. As an example 
of workmanship this specimen is worthy 
of special examination, whilst the orna¬ 
mentation is very suggestive alike as 
regards the art displayed in the design, 
and the method by which the decorative 
effect is realised. 

Many jewel-caskets of the fifteenth 
and sixteenth centuries were elaborate 
examples of geometric design, in which 
great ingenuity and skill were shown 
by those who designed and constructed 
them. Following the system by which 
the panelling, window tracei’y, and taber¬ 
nacle work of the best period of decorated 
Gothic were constructed, -thin plates of 
metal were perforated by drilling, cutting, 
and filing into tracery so adapted that when 
a series of plates were laid over each other they formed 
complete Gothic panels, producing a charming effect 
of light and shade. These perforated plates, drilled 
at proper points in the design—a plain plate as 
the back being drilled to correspond—were riveted 
together, and formed the sides and top of the casket. 
The rivet-heads were chiselled into decorative forms, 
and chased as rosettes in a variety of ways. Nothing 

(17th Century.) 

in the way of decorative iron-work could be more 
simple than the method of construction; and the 
ingenuity shown in fhe designs, and the perfect 
adaptation of the series of plates to the completion 
of the full effect, exercised the skill and tested the 
knowledge of graphic geometry of the medheval 
worker in iron, to the full as much as the elaborate 
carvings in wood and stone exercised the workers 
in those materials. 

The extent to which certain fixed articles of 
furniture were at once strengthened and decorated 
by forged iron-work of a highly artistic character 
was formerly so great that it is difficult in these 
days of coloured woods and French polish to under¬ 
stand how the amount of work was done; but in 
the period of which we are treating, the smiths 
of each century must have been as abundant as 
persons who in these days bear the name without 
following the calling. In the cupboard front (No. 
2,452—’56) we have a German example of about 
1550, probably Nuremberg work. It is of oak, 
overlaid, with polished iron mounts, hinges, and 
latches. It is a singularly perfect illustration of 

the adaptation of the metal 
mounts to the doors of a cup¬ 
board, or possibly a cabinet 
fixed in a wall. The design 
is divided into four spaces 
by the framed work of the 
sides and a vertical and hori¬ 
zontal cross-bar, thus forming 
four doors, each pair having 
a double fastening working 
from the vertical bar. The illustration 
shows the two lower doors only. Highly 
decorated bolt-plates of perforated orna¬ 
ment are fixed upon each door—balancing 
each other—and the bolts of each pair work 
in opposite directions upon this cross-bar. 

The hinges are so arranged that the 
main stay-plates are attached to the out¬ 
side framework, and the hinge proper 
corresponds with the fit of the door, as 
the horizontal decoration crosses and 
secures each door in parallel lines. The 
binding' strength of these decorations is 
very great. Nothing can be more simple 
in form and detail than these decorative 
adjuncts, and yet the ornamental effect is practically 
perfect. The finish of the iron-work by polishing 
contrasts admirably with the dark wood on which the 
iron-work is fixed, but we can conceive that when 
the whole was new the new oak harmonised with 
excellent effect with the polished mounts. 

The introduction of gilt, brass, or ormolu mounts 
on furniture in the period and style now known 



german COFFER. (Early 18th Century.) 

as Louis Quatorze superseded the modest but more 
legitimate iron mounts of a simpler and less osten¬ 
tatious age, in which utility, strength, and solidity 
were aimed at as the true basis on which decorative 
effects were produced. In these constructions we 
had science as a basis, and the ornamentation was 
invariably designed so as to embellish and enhance 
the essential construction and form to the eye, and 
in no sense to conceal, but rather to display the con¬ 
struction. The debased style of ornamentation which 
came into vogue with the fripperies of the seven¬ 
teenth and early eighteenth century French art 
ignored all science in construction, and undoubtedly 
led to the utter neglect of all true design, and the 
final obliteration of the workman-designer alike in 
wood and metal work. 

Our next subject scarcely comes within the range 
of wrought iron-work proper, although it is certainly 
decorated iron-work. This is a girandole of two 
lights (No. 2,397a—’55). It consists of the figure 
of a female Triton holding a pair of sconces. The 
figure is in cast iron, produced after the Italian 
manner, although French of the seventeenth century, 
by the method used in bronze casting a la cere perdue. 
The ornaments on which the sconces are fixed, as also 
the sconces themselves, are of forged iron. The 
double fish-tails or basements to the figure are cast 
solid with the figure itself. The whole work is ad¬ 
mirably executed in its style—that is, of bronze work 
rather than iron. The figure and cast portions are 
chiselled and finished with a polish which renders 
the whole an admirable adjunct i to a fireplace, or a 
mirror, or as a bracket. A companion work has a 
male Triton as the subject of the figure. 

As a matter of technique the combination of 
wrought and east iron in this work is interesting, but 

the more legitimate method is to con¬ 
struct the work as a whole of wrought 
iron, and then to add the figures in 
cast iron in such a position in the 
design that the riveting or screwing 
on of details is not necessary. The 
cast portions then take their places as 
an adjunct to the wrought-iron frame¬ 
work and decoration. 

The lock and hasp engraved on the 
next page (No. 4,850a—'58) are of a 
very different character, being Italian 
work of the late sixteenth or early 
seventeenth century. These are exam¬ 
ples of the elaborate manner in which 
locks and door-handle plates were de¬ 
corated during the later part of the 
fifteenth, the whole of the sixteenth, and 
early part of the seventeenth centuries. 
The plates of fiat forged iron are chiselled 
into the geometric forms necessary to give effect to 
the decorations and security to the lock, handle, or 
hasp, of which it is at once the ornament and means 
of attachment. The plates are perforated by drilling 
and chiselling into the chequered or foliated designs. 
These are assisted in the details by incised work, 
giving the venations of the foliage, and further 
decorated by punching up from the back studs at 
stated intervals, in the manner of repousse. The 
plates are arranged into the form of a St. Andrew’s 
cross, with the locks in the centre, the locks being 
also decorated with incised panel-work. 

The effect here obtained by flat plates perforated 
and chiselled has a richer, but certainly a less 
architectural effect than that adopted by the old 
English workers in iron of our Decorated Gothic 
periods already alluded to in the remarks on the iron 
casket, by which an ornamental effect was built up, 
so to speak, by a series of perforated plates of thin 
metal worked out geometrically from the plain plate, 
the general form of the perforations and so on, to 
the more complicated details of the top plate, all 
riveted together in such a manner as to make the 
heads of the rivets the finishing detail of the whole. 

The neglect into which the decorative iron-work 
of the periods we have endeavoured to illustrate has 
fallen is not only to be regretted, but appears to be 
quite phenomenal, when we consider the skill and dex¬ 
terity to which the artist-smiths of the seventeenth and 
early portion of the eighteenth centuries had attained. 
Change of fashion scarcely seems to account for the 
facts, and one had only, even within the last quarter 
of a century, to walk through some of the older 
quarters of Chelsea and Kensington to discover ex¬ 
amples of wrought iron-work—gates, pediments, and 
railings—which were alike admirable in design and 



execution. Even at the present time a drive through 
the eastern suburbs of London rewards the admirer 
of this species of decorative art, so thoroughly English 
in character, by the discovery of examples, especially 
gates and pediments, which it would be a difficult 
matter to copy, without consideration of the ability 
which originally designed the forms, all thoroughly 
adapted to the technique of the productions. 

Strangely enough, the French appear to have 
taken a very decided step towards a revival of 
wrought iron-work for ornamental purposes, and 
it appears, so far, to be chiefly upon the lines of 
the old English methods, rather than of the Italian, 
Flemish, or German. Whether this will stimulate 
the half-realised attempts to bring back this old 
English art-industry to the smithies of our own 
country it is difficult to say. Hitherto the attempts 
have been mostly over-done, and the simplicity of con¬ 
struction and the ornamentation actually growing 
out of that construction of the old examples appear 
not to have been understood; and “stuck on” details 
intended for ornament, but having little relation to 
a true ensemble, have degraded some really good work, 
as regards manipulation and finish. 

The commercial aspect of such a revival is not 
a cheering one. The fact that very decorative works 
in iron can be produced in malleable cast iron is 
decidedly against the economic use of ornamental 
wrought iron, except in cases where a single work, 
or at most a very few repetitions of the same design 
may be wanted. When the design is available for ex¬ 
tended application—such as when applied to railings 
and decorative mounts for copings—malleable wrought 
iron has the advantage; and when the design is really 
adapted to easting, and is not a mere slavish imita¬ 

tion of wrought iron details, no sound or common- 
sense aesthetic objection can he taken to its use. 
The material is tough, and therefore not easily broken. 
Its surface is even, and it can be cast sufficiently thin 
with safety to give much of the effect of wrought iron 
when forged hot. Of course the more delicate 
details of forged iron-work, such as tendrils, 
rosettes in repousse, and even the admirable de¬ 
corative effects produced by rivets in the older 
works, are impossible. This, however, is the 
penalty which Art has to pay so frequently for 
the advance of science as applied to the in¬ 
dustrial arts. George Wallis. 

ITALIAN LOCK. (14th Century.) 


T HE Midland Counties Art Museum at the 
Castle, Nottingham, does not deteriorate in 
quality, although the position it took up on the day 
of its opening was of exceptionally high standard, 
and the changes in the exhibits are many and 
frequent. The annual report submitted to the 
Nottingham Corporation is a statement of success 
encouraging to that municipal body; and there can 
be little doubt that the Castle Museum remains no 
longer an experiment, but that it has taken up a 
permanent place among the foremost art-institutions 
in the United Kingdom. The valuable Clumber 
collection, lent by the Duke of Newcastle, continues 
to enrich the principal gallery, and few private col¬ 
lectors can boast of such a superb array of all that 

is unique in art. There are Venetian scenes by 
Caliavari and Canaletti; landscapes by Claude 
Lorraine and Poussin; portraits by Holbein, Sir 
Peter Lely, and Gainsborough; peasants by Teniers; 
hunting incidents by Wouvermans; gallants and 
merry-makers by Rubens; specimens of the genius 
of Correggio and Salvator Rosa, Velasquez, Van 
Os, and Kauffman. Here are Vandyck’s deathless 
“Charles I.,” and Gainsborough’s “Beggar Boys”— 
two innocent boy-faces, with rough hair and unkempt 
clothes, but with expressive brown eyes of unconscious 
sweetness. The faces are, perhaps, too round and 
plump to associate with pleading poverty. Contrast 
them with Dickens’s description of “poor Joe’s” 
pinched face. Next is a ghastly picture full of power, 



attributed to Correggio or Furini. It is depictive 
of Sigismunda, daughter of Tancred, King of Italy, 
mourning over the heart of her murdered lover. 
The tragic maiden contemplates a human heart— 
anatomists would protest that it is far too large even 
to belong to a lover. The subject is morbid, and 
savours of the dissecting-room. But the painting is 
put in with masterly handling, and the expression is 
instinct with energy and emotion. Specially to be 
looked for in the Duke’s collection are some artistic 
gems that are liable to be missed, because they are so 
small. These are six miniatures by Boucher, a few 
inches square, with scenes from Arcadia; four by 
Moreau, “ La Nuit ” and “ Le Jour,” “ Les Adieux ” 
and “La Dame du Palais”-—little larger than 
cabinet photographs, yet crowded with incident and 
figures, strong in character, and masterly in colour; 
a garden scene by Watteau, and a Cupid and Foun¬ 
tains by Fragonard. All these specimens afford a 
surpassing study of greatness in little things. They 
are large paintings looked at through the wrong 
end of opera-glasses. 

Among the modern paintings there is an admir¬ 
able concentration of much that has been notable in 
achievement during the last few years. To confine 
our inspection to the exhibits in the principal salon — 
a stately gallery, perfect as to lighting and hanging 
—there is a picture that is calculated to arrest 
the attention of the most cursory visitors. It is 
“ The Long Sleep,” by Briton Riviere, in which the 
artist seems to have thrown all his power and pathos. 
To those who can call to mind the pictures of the 
Royal Academy of 1867, this composition will stand 
out with pleasant distinctness. The story is very 
simple, as all pathetic stories are. An old man, 
with furrowed cheeks and withered tresses, sits as if 
asleep in his chair. The head droops slightly and 
naturally forward; the hands are clasped in mute 
prayer; a clay pipe has fallen broken on the floor; the 
fire in the grate has gone out. Two collie dogs— 
evidently the only companions in his lonely widowed 
life—cannot understand their master’s long slumber. 
One of these faithful animals stands on its haunches, 
and with a strange strained earnestness looks won- 
deringly up at the bowed and silent head; the other 
dog has its paws in close pathetic pressure on his 
knees, and is peering pleadingly into his face with 
a wistful intelligence that seems human in its aching 
anxiety. The picture challenges Sir Edwin Landseer’s 
“ Shepherd’s Chief Mourner ” in expressive grief. 
Another picture that holds the artistic eye captive 
is “La Sehiava,” by B Amiconi. It is’ an exqui¬ 
site painting, alike in composition and execution. A 
beautiful maiden, whose years scarcely belong to the 
fragility of girlhood, and have not yet entered upon 
the fuller and more vigorous beauty of womanhood, 

half sits, half reclines upon gorgeous cushions and 
glowing drapery. The bosom is bare; there is the 
gleam of jewels; the attitude of the figure is grace 
itself; and the hand is drawn with poetry of pose 
across the neck. The bare arm seems to thus divide 
body and soul. It is the unconscious but implied 
partition, separating an angel’s face from voluptuous 
draperies and the slavery of sensual surroundings. 
The face belongs to no artist’s model. It is a revela¬ 
tion. A pretty, pensive face, tender, tremulous, and 
timid, soft and sensitive as that of a child; the 
eyes watchful and apprehensive, and full of a vague 
alarm. They are heavy with unshed tears, and dark 
with tears that have just been shed. The expression 
in these eloquent orbs constitutes the chief triumph 
of the painter. The spectator cannot tear him¬ 
self away from their sad, sweet, sorrowful appeal. 
They haunt him as do those of Guido’s so-called 
“ Beatrice di Cenci ” in the Palazzo Barberini, or 
those of his “ Mater Dolorosa” at Dresden. Another 
noteworthy painting of a different kind is a large 
canvas by J. F. Peele, inscribed “ On Guard.” Mr. 
Ruskin has pleaded for painting that it is “ nothing 
but a noble and expressive language, invaluable as 
the vehicle of thought, but of itself nothing.” 
“On Guard” excels in this “language of lines;” 
and it is interesting to know that the picture is 
one of Mr. Ruskin’s favourites. It depicts a rustic 
interior painted with Dutch attention to micro¬ 
scopic detail, and yet with an idyllic suggestive¬ 
ness that is all the artist’s own. A chubby-faced 
English baby sleeps in a big old-fashioned wooden 
cradle—a very different piece of upholstery to the 
fashionable bassinette of to-day. An elder sister 
—ui child of seven—who has been bidden to watch 
the little one sleep, is likewise in the land of dreams. 
A collie dog, who had evidently deputed to himself 
the vigilant duty of guarding both, has also fallen 
fast asleep with his nose on the floor in an attitude of 
helpless watchfulness. Both sentinels are overcome 
with slumber, and a trio of sleeping beauties is pre¬ 
sented. The picture is as droll as it is pretty. 

Mr. F. D. Hardy has a picture entitled “ Music 
at the Parsonage.” “Sweetness and light” are the 
prevailing characteristics of this clever composition. 
The painting might be a passage from one of the 
earlier and idyllic chapters of Goldsmith’s “ Vicar of 
Wakefield.” There is an old-fashioned atmosphere, 
an unstudied simplicity, an unsullied innocence in 
the picture. The dress is of the last century. The. 
fresh beauty on the face of the maiden presiding at 
the harpsichord can only belong to Olivia. The 
Vicar is surely Dr. Primrose. That is the philoso¬ 
phical Mr. Burchell scraping the violin. The ornate 
lover is playing the flute. An elder sister is admo¬ 
nishing the noisy young members of the family on 



the merry swing at the open door. The picture repays 
special study. The tout ensemble is perfectly harmo¬ 
nious, and yet it may he divided, and each component 
part furnishes a picture of itself—whether we take 
the little concert party that surrounds the old world 
instrument, from whose ivory keys the sweet-faced 
daughter is eliciting a silvery melody, or the care¬ 
fully painted interior with its subdued furniture, 
or the joyous life of the little ones swinging under 
the glancing green of the trees at the door, or the 
view of the trim garden revealed through the open 
casement. Mr. James Webb has a picture of the 
Seine at Paris remarkable for the liquidness of the 
light; and there is an evening lake scene by Mr. J. 
P. Pettitt, in which the mountains seem to die away 
in the tender pathetic atmosphere, the hirch-trees 
in the foreground being painted with subtle skill. 
An emphatic success in genre is the “ Old Man's 
Treasure," by Carl Gussow—a picture of an un¬ 
wieldy old man, with a heavy Dutch face, fondling 
a mere mite of a kitten. The amused expression on 
his face is a revelation of tenderness and youthful 
vivacity wedded to wrinkled care and age, while the 
contrast between the soft little toy of a kitten with 
the great work-grimed hands that caress it is for- 
cibly illustrated. “ Away with Melancholy: Dick 
Swiveller,” by Mr. J. T. Lucas, represents a middle- 
aged man in old-fashioned dress playing a flute. 
The serio-comic face is at once humorous and 
pathetic, but it will not be the common acceptation 
of Charles Dickens's impecunious hero. There are 
several pictures of genius by Mr. H. Clarence 
Whaite, full of the mannerisms and beauties of 
that ambitious artist. “ Your pictures are undoubt¬ 
edly splendid works, but I never saw such landscapes 
in Nature as you paint." “No," said Turner to 
this candid critic; “ don't you wish you had ? " 
The e} r es of the Philistines have not been permitted 
to behold outward Nature as it has been revealed to 
Mr. H. Clarence Whaite. Perhaps his best picture 
in the present collection is a big, bold composition 
entitled “ The Rainbow." The vivid arch strides in 
a dream of colour at once soft and brilliant across a 
romantic valley, and seems to stand out from the 
canyas. “War Time, 1871," by Munkacsy, is a 
sombre but strong picture, showing the seamy side of 
“ the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war." 
The solemn tragedy, the sober truth, and the silent 
terror of the scene are unrelieved by one gleam of 
gladness. An anxious domestic group are engaged 
in picking lint. There is a wounded soldier with 
empty sleeve and pallid face in the room; but the 
most pathetic figure in the picture is that of a 
pensive-faced woman, young and widowed. A solemn 
silence adds to the reality of this dolorous scene of 
domestic sadness. “ Remembered," by Mr. J. S. 

Noble, recalls the 109th Exhibition of the Royal 

Gustave Dore is represented by three fine pic¬ 
tures. Two are full-length figures of Italian cha¬ 
racter—one a tambourine girl and child, a beautiful 
picture, full of tender poetry and repose; the other 
strong in energy, and representing a lissom-limbed 
tambourine girl playing, while a wrinkled old witch 
of a mother regards the performance with a greedy 
mercenary gaze. The third picture by this gifted 
Frenchman is a Spanish fortune-telling scene. It 
is a large and splendid composition, introducing a 
score or more figures. A rich and stately young 
Spanish lady is crossing a crafty old crone’s hand 
with silver under the lee of a country wall, on 
which some dead bats are nailed. Conspicuous is the 
strong contrast between the refined lady and her two 
attendants in rippling mantillas and the picturesque 
squalor and bright rags of the gipsy group. The 
detail in the picture is carefully conceived. Observe 
the happy effect produced in the foreground by the 
satirical magpie consulting a droll destiny in the 
scattered playing cards. 

One of the most striking of the pichires by 
the late Mr. Henry Dawson is “ Below Waterloo 
Bridge." This is almost worthy of Turner's genius. 
It contains much of the atmospheric glamour for 
which Turner was famous, together with some of 
his stage trickery of colouring. There is a wild 
conflagration in the sky. St. Paul’s stands out 
in startling relief in the background ; the river is 
somewhat idealised; and yet it is the Thames and 
London presented in splendid reality. The great 
hard-working city presents picturesque beauties that 
our artists somewhat fail to seize. The vulgar un¬ 
commercial Thames is as paintable as the Arno or 
the Elbe. Paris can afford no picture equal to the 
view looking down the river from Waterloo Bridge, 
with the fine fajade of Somerset House, the broken 
Temple Buildings, the forest of chimneys, the steeples 
of Sir Christopher Wren's churches, with the grand 
dome of St. Paul's over all. Even the fog and mist 
of the city atmosphere are favourable to artistic 
effects. The same subject is to be found treated 
in the same room by Mr. E. J. Niemann. His style, 
however, differs largely from Dawson's, and the picture 
can scarcely be said to be in Niemann's best manner. 
There is a creamy smoothness in the stone-work of 
Somerset House that might belong to a Venetian 
palazzo, and a tranquil blue placidity prevails in 
atmosphere and water. St. Paul's is clear cut with 
a pearly background. 

Water-colours are well represented at Notting¬ 
ham. There is a large gallery with scarcely a 
weak picture in the collection. Note the delicacy 
and finish in the two little river pictures, “ Willow, 



"Willow,” and “ Landscape with. Figure/’ by Mr. 
G. D. Leslie, R.A.; the three exquisite water¬ 
colours by Mr. J. B. Pyne; and the very large 
water-colour by Copley Fielding of Tintern Abbey, 
a picture that might have been produced in oils, so 
deep is it in tone, and so rich and strong in mellow 
effects. The “ Antwerp” by Mr. T. Walter Wilson is 
remarkable for intricate detail, the lace-like spire of 
the cathedral being rendered with surpassing success. 
A cordial word of praise cannot be denied Mr. Wyke 
Bayliss’s “ Interior of Strasburg Cathedral,” the 
attention to minute detail in this picture being 
strengthened with wonderful mastery over contrasted 

In the galleries downstairs devoted to exhibits 
from the South Kensington Museum are some in¬ 
teresting additions. Among the recent loans from 
South Kensington to Nottingham is an iron gate 
screen from Hampton Court, made by Huntingdon 
Shaw, a Nottingham craftsman. It is from one of 
twelve of forged iron, wrought into scrolls and 
tendrils, shell-work of repousse. Though not dis¬ 
playing the consummate art which distinguished the 
work of Quentin Matsys, it is a tine example of what 

English workers could accomplish in the seventeenth 
century. Poor Shaw received his commission for the 
gates from William the Dutchman. The King died 
before it was executed. Parliament repudiated the 
artist’s account, and he died from disappointment. 
There is likewise in this connection a notable loan, 
made by Mr. Joseph Bond—a well-known collector— 
of silversmith’s work: vases and candlesticks, beakers, 
goblets, and ewers of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
centuries, which show that the English workmen of 
the past were delicate and expert artists. In this 
series is a finely-finished silver salver, remarkable 
not only for its own beauty, but because it was 
engraved by William Hogarth. It is, no doubt, the 
work of the latter part of his seven years’ ’pren¬ 
tice servitude with Mr. Ellis Gamble, “ goldsmith, 
at the Golden Angel in Cranbourn Street, Leicester 
Fields,” whom superfine Mr. Horace Walpole, in 
his “ Anecdotes of Painting,” disdainfully describes 
as “a mean engraver of arms upon plate,” little 
thinking — supercilious man! — that the same cun¬ 
ning calling was followed by one Benvenuto Cellini, 
and another Mare Antonio Raimondi, and a third 
Albert Diirer. Edward Bradbury. 

“THE PRODIGAL SON.” Statue by M. Peynot. 

T he serious and solid work of sculpture which is 
the subject of our illustration was awarded, in 
1880, the Prix de Rome of the Academy of Fine 
Arts. It is a quiet and sound work of the kind 
which deserves such recognition all the more that it 
does not make any noisy claim to it. The nude 
form has been studied with great care from a too 
well-nourished model, it may be said, but the distress 
which the figure itself hardly embodies is perfectly 
expressed in the attitude, eloquent of self-abandonment 
and languor, and in the features, full of memories and 
melancholy. No freak of art is perceptible anywhere, 
except perhaps in the size of the extremities, and 
especially of the feet. Unless this is a delusive effect 
of the reproduction, the sculptor has allowed him¬ 
self a more than classic licence. The Greeks, it is 
scarcely necessary to say, had none of our modern 
love of small feet—a love belonging rather to a 
tailor’s ideal, perhaps, among ourselves—but con¬ 
sidered that the human figure should stand upon an 
ample natural pedestal. The extreme length of the feet 
in the Medici “ Venus” must assuredly have struck 
every one who has looked at the original—and they 
are among the unrestored and authentic portions of 
the statue—for the goddess who “ loves in marble ” 
has feet which a sculptor or painter of Venus, as the 

modern taste conceives her, would consider impossible. 
But M. Peynot has given his hero extremities still 
more heroic. His subject is perhaps one of the most 
lastingly useful and well-used in all the range of 
sacred and secular story. Painters more than sculptors 
have illustrated the most human of the parables ever 
since painting became historical, and it was especially 
in the later developments of the schools, when art 
grew more romantic, illustrative, and anecdotal, that 
the Prodigal Son carousing (in the company of six¬ 
teenth-century ladies in stiff brocades and pointed 
waists), the Prodigal Son repenting among the husks, 
and the Prodigal Son returning to his father’s roof, 
were the themes of dozens of the picturesque canvases 
of the Renaissance. Every pause and every incident 
of the story is so striking and so dramatic as well to 
warrant this choice. The pathos of confidence and 
contrition enhances that of physical misery, but it is 
upon the latter, as Mr. Ruskin has observed, that the 
Prodigal’s fortune turns; not sorrow for evil done, 
but the bitter sense of hunger and desolation first 
touches his heart, and Mr. Ruskin expects many 
devout persons to complain of him for spoiling their 
favourite parable by his insistence upon this; but it 
is precisely on this account that we have called the 
subject the most human of parabolic themes. 

THE PRODIGAL SON. (From the Statue by 3t. Peynot.) 




A LTHOUGH it is the practice to speak of instan¬ 
taneous photography now-a-clays with a good 
deal of assurance, to any one who gives himself the 
trouble to think, the term is a very indefinite one. 
To take a photograph in the tenth part of a second 
would by many people he deemed instantaneous, and 
yet if it were so described, what should we call 
the exposures made by the French astronomer M. 
Janssen, who takes pictures of the sun by submitting 
a sensitive plate to the solar rays for the brief space 
°1’ loioo of a second? The phrase “ instantaneous 
photography,” then, is simply a term of convenience, 
and to speak of rapid photography, as distinguished 
from ordinary operations, would be at once more 
correct and more intelligible. 

Although feats of rapid photography were familiar 
enough in the Daguerreotype and collodion days, it 
is only since the introduction of gelatine plates that 
such work has grown into importance. Within the 

space of this brief article we cannot explain where¬ 
fore the sensitive salts of silver, when enclosed in a 
film of gelatine, should be more readily acted upon 
by light than when contained in collodion; we must 
refer the reader to the pages of the more technical 
journals in which the chemical and physical aspects 
of photography receive the attention they deserve. 
Our endeavour here will be simply to show in what 
way instantaneous photography may be made use of 
by painters and draughtsmen, and also to point 
out that, with an artist behind the camera, it is 
possible to secure a photograph which has some 
claim to be considered an art-production. 

Our illustrations will explain in a measure how 
helpful the camera may be to the artist. Take Mr. 
Mayland’s “ Shipping and Smoke” as an example. 
An artist sent from abroad to obtain sketches of the 
busy Thames, with a view to producing a work on 
London, or a painter desirous of depicting upon canvas 


(From an Instantaneous Photograph by Messrs. Marsh Brothers.) 



the crowded highway so indicative of our commer¬ 
cial prosperity, would value a photographic sketch of 
this nature very highly. Half a dozen such pic¬ 
tures, supplemented by a few rough drawings in his 

Another example of rapid work by which the 
artist may benefit is the “ Swans” of Messrs. Marsh 
Brothers. It would need a quick eye to seize either 
the vivid movement of the fast-turning birds, or the 


(From an Instantaneous Photograph by Messrs. Marsh Brothers.) 

note-hook, would amply suffice for his purpose. The 
massive screw-steamer gliding swiftly down the river, 
the dark-sailed barges, the black smoke from funnel 
and factory indicate an amount of “ life ” which, if 
he had been able to grasp it at the moment, could 
not have been set down in black and white without 
much labour. But, in all probability, it would have 
been impossible to seize the effect with a pencil; the 
heaving water as the huge screw swings quickly round, 
the dense curl of black smoke blotting out portions 
of the sky, the barge tacking to avoid the steamer, 
the belching chimneys in the background—not one, 
but all of these effects go to make up the picture. 

iridescent effect upon the water, which has almost 
the viscid appearance of molten metal. Mr. May- 
land’s flock of sheep, full of life and animation, 
cropping the grass among gorse and heather as they 
advance, is another study that animal-painters would 
make good use of; while “Henley Regatta” and the 
“ Cricket Match ” are of a class which special cor¬ 
respondents and artists for the weekly illustrated 
newspapers will best appreciate. 

The rapid gelatine plates permit much that was 
impossible before, and for this reason it is that painter 
and draughtsman will be able to derive greater 
assistance from the camera. Street scenes are not 

(From an Instantaneous Photograph by Mr. 17. Maylanil.) 




(From an Instantaneous Photograph by Mr. W. Mayland.) 

only capable c>£ depiction, but by the aid of a clever 
apparatus recently constructed by Mr. Eolas, and 
which has received the name of “ Detective Camera/'' 
they can be secured without the presence of the 
photographer being dreamt of. The camera, which was 
recently described in the photographic journals, is to 
all outward appearance a small portmanteau, a hand¬ 
bag, or even a boot-black’s block, as the case may be, 
and this is set down for an instant on the pavement, 
the parapet of a bridge, or any eligible site. The 
photographer rapidly takes account of his lighting, 
his distance, and foreground, makes his exposure, and 
is away with the instrument before even his sojourn 
has been remarked. The results we have seen are 
quite Hogarthian in their character. An apple-stall 
at the foot of London Bridge, with a boy bargaining 
with the woman for her wares; two men seated on the 
paddle-box of a penny-steamer, the one relating an 
incident, and the other rubbing his forehead in doubt— 
such things are but sketches, it is true, but they would 
be invaluable to any painter of the life and manners 
of our metropolis. The rapidity of gelatine plates, 
therefore, permits of taking something more than set 
scenes and arranged tableaux, with which photo¬ 
graphers formerly treated us; photographs full of 
life and being are now attainable, and this quality 
must ever be valuable to the artist. 

To come to the second point of our paper. Now 
and again, as everybody knows, a most excellent 
result is achieved by the ordinary photographer; 
but if he is to produce you a photo-picture every 
time he sets up his camera, he must understand 

something more than the technicalities of his calling. 
We will go to Mr. Mayland’s picture of the Thames 
once more. A similar scene may be frequently 
witnessed on our river, yet such pictures as his are 
scarce. To secure the result, the photographer had 
not only to wait until a disposition of the shipping 
proper to the exigencies of art was before him, but 
he had also to judge of the lighting, so that the 
massive shadows of vessel and smoke came between 
him and the sun, to produce due contrast, while 
at the same time the technical excellence of his 
photographic plate should not be marred. Nay, more; 
it was necessary for him not only to have some art- 
knowledge in order to choose and seize a picture, 
but to possess sufficient skill and wisdom to produce 
his shadows, high lights, and half tones in harmony 
with the subject. In a word, he must so understand 
the development of the plate that he can give due 
effect to lights, shadows, and distance. 

This endeavour to get something of fine art into 
camera pictures is successfully achieved in many of 
the photographs of to-day. At the last Paris Ex¬ 
hibition, indeed, one of our English photographers, 
Mr. H. P. Robinson, of Tunbridge Wells, was 
granted the gold medal for the art-qualities of the 
fine photographs he exhibited. It is perhaps only 
fair to say that Mr. Robinson, as an exhibitor at 
the Royal Academy, has claims to be considered a 
painter as well, but still it is on the ground of 
art-photography that ho has gained distinction; and 
we will here try to show how it is that an artist 
who is also a practised photographer secures very 



different results to one who understands but the 
tech idealities of the matter. 

Given a landscape and given a photographer, 
who is so far a photographer only, that he can 
perform all the technical operations satisfactorily. 
There is a patch of black firs in the foreground, 
there is a grey castle high upon an eminence, there 
is a slope of brown woods in the distance. It has 
been argued many a time that the camera is but a 
mechanical instrument that cannot go wrong, hut 
must perforce reproduce any scene that happens to be 
in front of it. Very good. The exposure is made, 
the plate is developed, and we look at the result. 
The negative is clear and bright, and lacks nothing 
as a chemical result; but the brambles in the fore¬ 
ground look like dried faggots, the castle on the 
hill is only half the height it is in nature, the pines 
are represented by pitchy darkness on one edge of 
the picture, and the woods in the distance are lost in 
the bright sky-line. The technical photographer has 
a reason for all this; he will say that the brambles 
were so close that they were out of focus, the lowness 
of the hill is simply due to the lens, for all objectives 
have a tendency to depress the horizon, the pines are 
black in nature, and if the plate had been sufficiently 
exposed to photograph them properly, the sky-line 
would have fogged. In all these explanations he is 
right, but for all that a photographer with some pre¬ 
tensions to art-knowledge would have made a very 
different thing of it. Mr. Robinson, Mr. Mayland, 
Mr. England, Mr. Bedford, Mr. Payne Jennings, 
Mr. Harvey Barton—to take half a dozen names at 
random of our best landscape photographers—would 
have made a picture. The brambles, boldly limned in 

the foreground, would have contrasted with the soft 
brown woodland on the horizon, the castle walls of 
silver-grey would rise sharply against the sky-line, 
while the pines, with their clear dark shadows in 
middle distance, would complete the picture. If lie 
were an artist as well as a photographer, he would 
first know what is required to make a picture, and 
then be able to make it. As a painter has to begin 
by choosing his pigments and mixing them, so in a 
measure he must bend his apparatus to his require¬ 
ments. At the outset of his work he knows that 
if one lens will not fulfil his requirements, another 
will; he is aware that if he raises it a little out of the 
centre he will correct that tendency to depression we 
were speaking about; but what lens he uses, and 
how he manipulates it, is all a matter of judgment. 
Next, to light the scene with effect, so as to secure 
massive yet transparent shadows, to decide which 
shall be the high lights of his picture, to produce 
an effective rendering of this object, while another 
shall not unduly suffer, are all points to be considered. 
We need not dwell upon choice of foreground, or upon 
the composition of the picture, for it is only too 
evident that the photographer must study these, if 
he is to produce anything of an artistic nature; but 
in the development of the plate, the knowing exactly 
what he wants and what he is working for, there is 
again considerable scope for taste and judgment. He 
will strive to produce a negative which, while vigorous 
in part, shall yet show the gentle naze in the distance, 
and furnish a print so soft and harmonious in colour 
that it looks like a sepia or charcoal drawing. He 
must, we repeat, know what is wanted in a picture, 
and be able to produce it. H. Baden Piutchard. 


(From an Instantaneous Photograph by Messrs. Marsh Brothers.) 

still retains 
tlie characteris¬ 
tics of an old Eng¬ 
lish farm, and until 
Simeon Harlin is ga¬ 
thered to his fathers, 
which must be soon now, nothing will he changed, 
save that which Nature changes in the ordinary 
course of her seasons. The old man still mounts 
his cob, hut he has to use the chipped and weather- 
stained horse-block in the yard. He still rides at 
an easy pace round about the farm, and boasts that 
he alone in that part of the county has stood out 
against modern innovations in farming. His only 
trouble is the fear which creeps over him very 
often that his son and heir, to whom the snug free¬ 
hold will descend, will, like his neighbours, depart 
from the ancient ways. It is not for me to show 
how well grounded are those fears, and how probable 
it is that when Harlin junior becomes the yeoman 
owner of llocky Close, there will be claret and 
champagne where the foaming ale-jug now stands, 
a red coat and spotless tops in lieu of a velveteen 
shooting-jacket with pockets made to pouch a hare, 
and a “gentleman’s estate' 1 '’ in place of an old- 
fashioned farm. The modest freehold takes its name 
from a field, only ten acres in extent, which is in 
fact a slice out of the side of a stiff hill, and is at the 
further corner thickly studded with grizzled heads of 

rock obtruding from the ground. Here, if, after a 
disappointing day with the single-barrelled gun, the 
youngsters on their way home at dusk creep quietly 
through the hedge on the top of the ridge, they may 
generally get a chance at a rabbit, albeit the veteran 
donkey that has been depastured in the close since 
his infancy has latterly seemed to take an asinine 
pleasure in giving the alarm, upon what is evidently 
some common understanding between him and the 
frisky conies. 

I cannot tell to-day the history of the Harlins 
in this place. It has had its beauty and its sorrows 
recorded upon dark grey headstones under the three 
hoary-stemmed yew-trees of the village church¬ 
yard in the simplest of records and humblest of 
epitaphs. My theme is the farm itself, and of that 
I do not write as an expert learned in agricultural 
science, and viewing everything with the practical 
eye which searches for theories, and sees, beyond the 
sweet sights that greet him as he saunters round 
about the farm, a prosaic account of profit and loss. 
It concerns me not that this or that manure is the 
most to he desired. Should the land he laid down to 
the wrong crop (according to the teaching of modern 
agriculturists), it troubles me not; and I must confess 
that the cattle, sheep, and pigs are rather to me 
objects placed by Providence to complete a picture, 
than things to he punched, pinched, and prodded to 
settle a question of gross weight. The reader who 
will accompany me in my gossip about Rocky Close 



must be prepared, therefore, for a companion who sets 
forth with a predisposition to indiscriminate enjoy¬ 
ment, rather than primed with technical information, 
or running over with wise judgments. For aught I 
know or cai’e. Rocky Close may be a model of bad 
farming, with hedges and subsoil and methods all 
awry. Yet it is a dear old retreat for a town sinner 
weary of racket and rush, and quite worthy of such 
immortality as the artist may bestow upon it. 

In this chill winter-time it no doubt requires 
robust health to enjoy life about a farm, and a 
capacity for entering into even the humblest of field 
sports. When the furrows are iron-hard, and even 
the marshy bottom has become firm ground, a sharp 
tramp to the ice-fringed rill which still trickles down 
to the mill-stream, and may yet harbour a vagrant 
snipe, is no hardship, though 

“ No mark of vegetable life is seen, 

No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call, 

Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, 

Save the lone redbreast on the moss-grown wall.’ 

In the long orchard, entered by a rude wicket 
from the farmyard, where knee-deep in straw the 
kine send their iced breath into the clear air, black¬ 
birds and thrushes make the best of the cold weather, 
and hares and rabbits pay nightly visits. The 
shepherd has a busy time during the long winter 
nights, and makes his slow rounds so long as the 
lambing season loads him with responsibilities. In 
the day-time you may find a congregation of men 
in the barns and outhouses, and in the early morning 
the people concerned with the dairy-stock and stables 
gather in the great raftered kitchen and breakfast 
by candle-light, the mighty faggot blaze gleaming 
upon the black rafters, and playing over the ghost- 
white flitches of bacon in the racks. In the after¬ 
noon comes the music of flails from the barn floor, 
and the sharp note of the fodder-cutting machines. 
At night an early quiet reigns at home and abroad, 
though at Rocky Close the half-hall half-kitchen 
is never brighter or warmer than when the family 
meets at high tea, and the old yeoman for three 
hours afterwards sits in his arm-chair, with a church¬ 
warden pipe, a brown jug of home-brewed, and a 
worn-out setter dozing at his 
footstool. In the chimney- 
corner, which is the tradi¬ 
tional site for this scene, we 
cannot sit when the ashen 
faggot is of mature propor¬ 
tions, for the heat drives us 
back in gradual retreat. Here 
you may learn what < filer, 
heated in its own pail, and 
curiously flavoured upon an¬ 
cient recipes, may become ; 

also the virtues of mulled elder wine, made from 
berries from the famous tree in the corner of the 
herb-garden. Yet, notwithstanding the tramps 
through the fields, and the cosy, sober evenings, 
winter is to the farm what night is to humanity— 
the time to sleep. 

Spring is the time of waking, and my friend 
Harlin, who takes his milestones of time from the 
calendar, and is delightfully learned and reverent 
in his talk about them, holds that the real farmer 
will find it worth his while to keep as keen an eye 
on his men from Candlemas to Midsummer as at 
any of the more bustling seasons when the fruits 
of the earth are ingathered. “ Take care of your 
seed-time, and harvest will take care of itself," 
almost seems to be his creed. Woe to the plough¬ 
man whose hand neglects its cunning, and to the 
sower who scatters ill. The farmer himself looks 
after these operations as keenly as the impudent, 
black-feathered rascals who follow the plough and 
make amends for the short-eommons of winter. The 
world hereabouts is stirring at Shrovetide, and is 
waxing happy as the March winds strengthen. 





The birds seem to enjoy those warm, westerly, blus¬ 
tering March winds, which dry the sodden earth, 
and sweep and garnish the hedgerows. Master 
Robin Redbreast was humble enough at Christmas, 
and so were the other wild birds that forced their 
company amongst the barn-door fowl at feeding¬ 
time ; but they all, the robin especially, are im¬ 
pertinent enough now, and it is not the “ wanton 
lapwing ” alone that gets another crest. The days 
lengthen rapidly, and in the hedgerows appear the 
well-known spring flowers. At the lower part of 
Rocky Close the ground levels and hollows, and 
here are always to be found early daffodils in mag¬ 
nificent patches, first of tender green, and then 
a glorious sheen of gold. The cottage children 
still give them the old-fashioned name of “ daffy- 
downdillies.” And with the April showers what 
a blessed, free-handed, tranquillising, hope-inspiring 
unsealing there is of the earth and its produce! 

“ Who loves not spring’s voluptuous hours, 

The carnival of birds and flowers ?” 

Who, indeed? In the city pent, should winter 
still linger on the verge of spring, perchance the 
hapless toiler, who wots not of birds and flowers, 
may put in an unfavourable reply to the poetess. 
Round about the farm, however, the spring is an 
inspiration in which all share. Simeon Harlin 

wears a smile of content, the maids are blithe and 
bonny, the domesticated beasts and fowls come under 
the influence of the beneficent revival. Cuckoo and 
swallow have come, and down in the osier bed, in 
the bend of the small stream where, wet with dew 
or hoar, we used to land our brilliantly-vestured 
perch in the young morning, while the teamsman 
whistled his horses along the path through the 
plantation, the nimble willow-wren is taking up 
his lodgings for the season. 

In that same mill-stream to which I have made 
passing reference there are trout, but it only touches 
the Rocky Close Farm, running round a small tongue 
of land at one extremity, and giving not more than 
a couple of hundred yards of fishing. But that 
tongue of land makes the fishing excellent of its 
kind, and to this I owe a special love for the farm 
in May-time. The water is half a mile from the 
house, and under the thatched eaves, over our 
morning pipes, we put our rods and tackle together. 
From a farmer’s point of view, May, I fancy, is 
a sort of “ off ” month, but from mine it is the 
most fascinating of the year. There are always 
gay familiar blossoms in the well-kept flower-garden, 
such as pansies, gillyflowers, peonies, and auriculas, 
and a murmur of bees maintaining a busy traffic 
in the sunshine between the flower-beds and their 



hives to the rear of the broad rhubarb leaves. The 
pigeons coo at the dovecote entrances; there is a 
placid lowing of kine from the farmyard, separated 
from the kitchen garden by a low wall; and there 
is, bordering the footpath by which we get to the 
trout, a tall hawthorn hedge, whose perfume hangs 
about you from morn to eve. The meadows set apart 
for hay, intersected by rills, and therefore prolific 
in cuckoo flowers, forget-me-nots, and marsh mari¬ 
golds, are truly “ painted with delight/’’ Before 
you reach the hurdles, your boots will be yellow 
with the shed gold of the blossoms. Cowslips and 
oxslips, too, wait to be plucked, and will be trampled. 
I can take you to the higher uplands to challenge 
comparison between the bramble and wild strawberry 
blossoms and any flower that grows; and on our 
return show you such a variety of wild roses as 
perhaps you never dreamt of, and dells carpeted 
with wild hyacinth. Then in the evening from the 
squire’s woods comes the trill of the nightingale, 
and bats wheel silently and night-moths drum 
heavily around your head, as Farmer Harlin indulges 
in prospects of hay and corn and roots, while the 
bark of dogs and bleating of sheep, with mellow 
chimes from the village steeple (when the wind 

sets in the right quarter), come with the twil ight, 
as we lean in lazy enjoyment over the gate of the 
orchard, whose blossoms this year have been a 
marvel of beauty. 

At certain times of the year Simeon Harlin, of 
Rocky Close, yeoman, plays the role of patriarch 
with admirable effect. lie is fond of telling you 
that he lives amongst his own people, and that his 
people are content. Agitators came into yonder 
village, at the starting of a movement to better the 
condition of the agricultural labourer, to teach them 
that they had no right to be content. For a while 
the newfangled notions disturbed them not a little, 
but they somehow, of their own accord, arrived at 
a tacit understanding that they had nothing to 
complain of, and the only recruit won over was an 
under-shepherd who required more shepherding than 
the sheep, and whose emigration to New Zealand 
made a decided difference in the death-roll of the 
next season’s lambs. The farmer, in truth, knows 
his people, and takes a bluffly sincere interest in 
their affairs. Shirkers only give Rocky Close a 
bad name, which is natural, seeing that their tenure 
of service thereon is of the briefest. 

At fragrant haymaking, mark the joviality of 
the men, women, and children. The whetstones 
seem to scream up and down the edge of the scythe 
with an extra meaning when the master looks on, 
and the familiar figure and the dappled iron-grey 
cob are as welcome as the presence of a good 
employer should be, but too often is not. He has 
his cheery words as to the quality of the swathe, 
his joke for the lasses handling the rakes, his jibe 
at the youth who seems afraid his pitchfork will 
burn him, and his encouragement for the children 
coming down with the black-oak flagons of cider 
or small beer. Nay, you may find him sitting with 
them, sharing their noonday repast under the big 
sycamore, the cob cast loose, and the worn-out setter 
dozing somewhere in the vicinity. Sheep-shearing 
is another patriarchal episode, the scene being now 
changed to the sheep-wash fed by the mill-stream. 
Harlin makes it a boast that his wool has been 
purchased by one Leicestershire merchant for the 
past twenty years, and he chuckles as he adds that 
the buyer knows what he is about. In other re¬ 
spects our farmer is made to feel that he is an 
established favourite. His corn goes off at market 
without trouble; the rector makes much of him, 
though he does sleep through the sermons in the 
dog-days; the squire swears there is not such a 
farmer in the three kingdoms, and the squire’s son 
not only pays 001111 : to the father, but consistently 
carries it on to the daughter—the child of his old 
age—to saucy, nut-brown Bertha, who daily puts 
the flowers on the window-sills, twines honeysuckles 




in her hair, prevents the gardener from clearing the 
jessamine from the window-panes, scents the linen 
higdi and low with lavender, and when the dainty 
Smith-Smythe girls profess horror at homely Rocky 
Close, protests that the smell of apples, onions, and 
cheese—to be encountered in some of the rambling 
stairways—is the groundwork of all manufactured 
essences, and the original of many natural perfumes. 

Harvest proper, however, is the season par ex¬ 
cellence in which Simeon Harlin makes his triumphal 
progresses round about the farm. The bad years 
of the last decade have been gentle with him, and 
he amuses himself by ridiculing the philosophers 
who torture themselves in discovering reasons for 
the disastrous failures. “ If you will take it out 
in style,” says he to his smart but desponding neigh¬ 
bour, “ you can’t expect to put it into bank balance.” 

The grain at Rocky Close is cut to this day, and 
hound, and threshed, and winnowed in the old- 
fashioned methods. The scythe and the sickle lay the 
corn and poppies low; the women and children bind 
the sheaves. The poor do well at gleaning Harlin’s 
stubbles. Ills countenance, by the time the soft-faced 
hunter’s moon is due, has become warm-hued and 
russet-tinted, and until the last wain is loaded—an 
operation performed with much rejoicing and cere¬ 
mony—no man is earlier or later afield. The great 
barn, upon whose ponderous doors the pelt of many a 
specimen of vermin has been nailed during the past 
quarter of a century, is converted into a festive hall, 
and a smoking harvest-home supper is laid upon the 
long row of planks and trestles. The farmer sits at 
the head of the table, with the king of joints before 
him, and the son and heir—tolerating the office, I fear, 
more out of love to his sire than appreciation of the 
position—faces him at the other end of the barn. The 
girls and younger boys wait upon the labourers, and 
it is the saucy Bertha, you may be sure, who has 
twined the hop-tendrils and clematis over the beam, 
and included in the decorations as many “ cluster 
fives ” as she could gather in the shady hazel copse. 

Keats must have been round about such a farm 
as Rocky Close, and at harvest-time. Can my readers 
have forgotten his invocation ?— 

“ Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store P 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing' wind; 

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hour- by hour.” 

And the poet’s reference to the cider-press reminds 
me of the merry time when, after the field-work is 

done, in the short, dark soughing November days, 
the press in the cider-house creaks and strains. 
This is a special treat for the privileged lads who 
gain admission to the mouldy, windy house where 
the candles gutter, and the juice runs gurgling out 
as the pulp is squeezed from its layers of straw 
by each descent of the press. In a corner is a 
gigantic heap of apples, of all sizes, colours, and 
conditions. While more important work was on 
hand, the women and children had heaped up the 
fruit to rest in the orchard, and much of it has come 
to press in an apparently rotten state. But this is no 
detriment, and I am not sure that it does not give 
“ tone ” to the ultimate beverage. The youngsters 
in the cider-house pounce upon the select qualities 
from the apple heap, and, spite of warnings from 
their elders, as to not very remote stomachic con¬ 
sequences, suck delicious draughts of sweet juice 
through casual straws. The cider produced by some 
farmers should be made an offence by Act of Parlia¬ 
ment ; the Rocky Close cider is in high repute through¬ 
out the whole country-side. The squire and rector, 
regularly as the season comes round, are presented 
with a cask for their own consumption, and when 
a certain distinguished personage shot in my lord’s 
covers, at that memorable battue when the pheasants 
were driven to the slaughter by thwacks from the 
beaters’ sticks, the beverage which was observed to 
sparkle like champagne, and to be more refreshing 
than the choice vintages of Epernay, was simply 
Rocky Close cider judiciously bottled. 

From one of the eminences upon the farm there 
peep through the beech-trees, after the leaves have 
fallen, the picturesque ruins of a castle. They are 
about a mile distant, and on the estate of the lord 
of the manor, a noble earl who has never been heard 
in the House of Lords, and who lives the life of a 
recluse. The local legend runs that the castle was 
battered by Cromwell’s cannon, and a curious depres¬ 
sion of the earth near the grizzled rock-head of the 
field, which gives a name to the farm, is pointed out 
as the spot where the artillery was planted. From 
the closely-preserved woods and coppices a good 
many birds, after a day’s carnival by his lordship’s 
guests, are frightened over to the farm, and Simeon 
Harlin might, if he chose, have excellent sport, and 
keep not a little game in the larder. But he has 
no taste that way. The English farmer is almost 
invariably a born sportsman, but our friend is the 
exception. As a boy he learned to scare the birds 
from the corn, and kill vermin, but the only amuse¬ 
ment in this direction he has allowed himself siuce 
he came into possession is rook-sliooting in May. 
Around the aforesaid ruins there are venerable 
rookeries, and, at the invitation of the steward, 
on a given day every year the neighbourhood makes 



holiday, and gathers to thin out the young rooks 
from the topmost branches. The birds, as they are 
tumbled down, are put into a common heap, and 
at the end of the day there is an equal division 
of the spoil. In this way the old man is able to 
boast that when he does go shooting he always 
returns with a good bag. 

At Rocky Close Farm there is no bailiff and 
no overseer. The heads of departments are, all and 
several, bound in one within the farmer’s capacious 
waistcoat, and it is probable that the invariable 
success of his farming is due to the undivided 
control which enforces his careful judgment. Yet 
there are three men who privately give themselves 
the airs of overseers, and who, in their way, are 
practically leaders of their fellows. First comes the 
shepherd, who is an old and valued servant. He 
and Harlin were boys together, and there is a deep 
mutual respect between them. A taciturn man, 
never in a hurry, very weatherwise, full of folk-lore, 
but seldom in the humour to unburden himself, this 
shepherd is a familiar figure about the farm and 
at the house, where, when he trudges up for orders, 
he is treated with more deference than the other 
men. One of his dogmatic theories is, that the 
smell of a sheepfold in the late autumn is good for 
pulmonary complaints, and that the virtue lies in 
the combined odour of turnip and sheep. The next 
man of importance is the head carter, as he calls 
himself out of his master’s hearing; a good man 
for horses, and a reliable, but densely stupid and 
ignorant in all else. The next is a pompous little 
fuzzy-headed fellow, who does what gardening is 
necessary, looks after the gates, and is generally to 
he found pottering about the brewhouse or rickyard, 
and doing odd errands for the house. There are 
two occasional visitors, who, by the regularity of 
their itineraries, almost seem to be in Harlin’s 
constant employment. They are the machinist and 
the ratcatcher. The machinist is one of the olden 
type, mostly a worker in wood, and not versed in 

the modern style of machinery. In his younger days 
he made a capital living by going from farm to farm 
repairing such machines as were in use, and com¬ 
bining the crafts of carpenter and wheel wri ght. 
But the march of science has left him liiyh and 


dry, and he is, in his declining days, at best a 
dismal visitor. The ratcatcher is a bird of another 
feather. Everybody knows his perky dogs, and 
his ferret-bag, and the fur cap on his head. Once 
upon a time he went his rounds with a team of 
four dogs harnessed to a tiny cart, and when this 
method of travel was put down by law, he allowed 
himself to be twice imprisoned before he would 
succumb to the new order of things. 

Before the autumn has quite gone, the Harlin 
girls, and a sprinkling of grandchildren, if the 
whole truth must be told, have a grand gipsy-party. 
This is the name of the entertainment, for the farmer 
was so put out at the proposition to dub it “ picnic,” 
that the young people cheerfully yielded, and have 
even admitted that it is by far the better name. 
On the other side of the ridge of Rocky Close the 
farm slopes down to a copse, full of hazel bushes. 
At the further side is a large pond or lake, well 
stocked with pike, tench, and perch. Those of us 
who have no longer a penchant for flirting, and have 
consequently eschewed such aids to flirting-made- 
easy as nutting, push through the clump of alders, 
and leave the others to hook down the nuts. The 
veteran is enthroned on the most mossy part of the 
knoll, and smokes the pipe of peace, and pending 
the disappearance of our floats, we entice him into 
conversation. Harvest is over, the shouts of the 
children echo towards us, and he is supremely 

Bless his fresh heart and stalwart old age ! May 
he long live to jog round about the farm; and when 
the yule log and holly and mistletoe (of which there 
is a rare growth in the orchard awaiting Christmas) 
are shining at Rocky Close, may I be there to 
share. Red Spinner. 




C APTAIN HILL has mingled studies among his 
pictures in a very interesting and pleasant 
manner; it is not only the artist who cares to see 
an artist's sketches, for often to the veriest idiotes 
they have a charm beyond that of finished work. 
It is well to see not only what an artist does, but 
bow he does it, and there is besides a beauty in 
chance passages of landscape which evades the 
artist when he makes nature pose to him. From 
the hand of Mr. G. D. Leslie are a couple of 
pleasant garden studies—one a quaint composition 

Among the more dramatic figure compositions 
of the English school is Mr. Yal Prinsep's “ Jane 
Shore"—the subject of one of our illustrations. The 
picture is eminently characteristic of the painter, 
especially as regards the tendency to minimise the 
head and maximise the development of shoulder, 
neck, and arm. The figure is expressive and power¬ 
fully modelled ; the woman crouches among the rank 
growth under the arches of a bridge, the brambles 
catching at her wild garments, and her hair loose 
about her panting breast—a hunted creature—while 


(From the Painting by R. ]V. Macbeth, in the Possession of Captain Rill.) 

of a square flower-bed full of pink carnations and 
their grey leaves, with a yellow corn-field beyond. 
A scrap, also in the way of a study, by Mr. E. A. 
Waterlow, is of very great beauty; this is an evening 
effect, with a country lane in cool transparent grey 
shadow, and a rosy glow of delicate light upon a 
hay-rick on the little hill beyond; still further off 
shines and blushes a rounded cloud; a few of those 
artistically useful birds—white geese—are going up, 
some having their plumage in the shadow and some 
in the light. Several of Mr. Phil Morris's sketches 
and studies of landscape are very fresh and artistic, 
and one or two have caught—without the deliberate 
imitation which is never happily or successfully 
applied to that particular master's exceedingly indi¬ 
vidual manner—some of the lightness, impulse, and 
sweetness of Corot. 

the soldiers in search of her pass above in a long line 
against the sky. 

Such romantic interest as attaches to these pas¬ 
sages of history is studiously eschewed by M. Degas, 
who may be taken as a typical realist and impres¬ 
sionist of his time. The union of these titles may 
be a puzzle to those who see nothing but detail in 
the realistic school, and nothing but vagueness in the 
impressionist; and in effect the extreme precision and 
deliberation of the realistic would seem to place it 
altogether on different lines from those of the vivid 
but momentary and optically confused manner of im¬ 
pressionist painting. But in fact there is an essential 
unity in the aims of impressionary art and natural¬ 
istic literature, inasmuch as both proclaim a complete 
denial of the ideal; and through the uncertainties 
of the mannered and fantastic painter may be seen 


(From the Painting by Val Prinaep, A.R.A., in the Possession of Captain Mill.) 



the intelligently-seized truth, the low or painful or 
humiliating faets, of the novelist. M. Degas is by 
no means extreme in his dislike of precision, outline, 
or explanation; he is, in fact, a master of his 
technique, but no artist has ever gone further in 
his refusal of beauty or the ideal. Most of his 
supremely clever canvases collected by Captain 
Hill are studies on the daylight stage of the opera 
and in the practising rooms and the green-rooms 
of the corps de ballet. He shows us the women 
working chillily at their profession in the dreary 
grey daylight—women of all ages, thin, undersized, 
bony, long-elbowed, with the abnormal development 
of the leg-muscles adding dismally to the imper¬ 
fections of the unidealised form, their hair raised 
in the huge chignons of some years ago—not a 
line of natural grace in their atti¬ 
tudes, nor a hint of beauty in face, 
dress, or figure, but only the taught 
sprightliness of the ugly dance forced 
into their tired limbs. In one pictui’e 
a business-like and ineffably insensi¬ 
tive old ruffian in slippers puts the 
women through their ghastly drill; 
in another two dilettanti of the bou¬ 
levard stretch themselves at ease to 
watch the work. The subjects have 
a peculiar cool cruelty which is in¬ 
definably painful. A sketch brushed 
in half an hour by M. Degas would 
be more finished than a less admir¬ 
ably lighted and balanced work with 
the additions and super-impositions 
of the labour of months and years. 

In the matter of action his figures 
are exceedingly true : the gesture of 
a girl who holds on to the pillar 
while she practises standing on her 
toes—she is in a depressing and dis¬ 
couraging stage of her novitiate— 
may especially be noted; and in all 
the apparent roughness of the manner 
in which the painter “ blocks out ” 
his forms there lurk a great power 
and certainty of draughtsmanship, 
the muscular tension and the accen¬ 
tuation of the joints being always 
intelligent and true. One of these 
compositions is, as we have said, 
studied on the stage, where the dusty 
blue-green scenery stands mistily in 
the background, and the huge top 
of a double-bass rises in front from 
the pit of the unseen orchestra. An 
eye which understands anything of 
the characteristics of vulgar millinery 

will appreciate the tact which has seized the blue 
effect produced by the cheap white muslin of the 
women's dresses. But we must not linger too long 
over works which assuredly have no charm of beauty 
wherewith to fascinate us. In contrast to them there 
hangs over one ballet subject a charming garden- 
orchard scene by M. Monet, full of blossoms and 
spring feeling; a pretty, delicate distance, poplars, 
and a tender sky combine to make a most attractive 

Mr. Macbeth’s “ Flood in the Fens” will he 
clearly remembered as one of the artist’s quite recent 
Academy pictures. Ilis pencil has for some years 
found happy subjects, full of novelty, breadth, and 
light, in the Fen country, with its levels, its height 
and width of sky, its spaces of water, and the incidents 


( From, the Painting by Val Bromley, in the Possession of Captain Bill.) 




(From the Painting by J. Poole , R.A ., in the Possession of Captain Hill.) 

of its industries. In so far as concerns nature only, 
the artist at work in England may still follow the 
facts to his heart's content. The national manner of 
money-making has not yet changed the face of the 
country so that art cannot deal with it until such 
time as vanished prosperity may restore the blue, the 
gold, the green, and the crystal to sky, sunshine, 
sward, and brook. Not that a true artist would wish 
—patriotism apart—to see that time; he would not 
wish to separate humanity from nature, and he knows 
that the sights and sounds and scents of labour— 
the husbandman at toil, the sound of a pickaxe in 
some distant quarry of the hills, the odour of the 
smouldering weeds and leaves—should add to a land¬ 
scape almost all its meaning and pathos. He would 
not banish the peasant from the land. But happily 
he has not to wait for so sad a consummation as the 
disindustrialisation of England, for so much of her fair 
expanse is in a state of absolute beauty-—the scene of 
labour, yet unmarred, as regards the landscape itself, 
by labour's grimmer forms. He may, as we have said, 
be as true to facts as he likes while he is dealing with 
the water, the meadows, and the hills. But it is 
otherwise when he comes to figures for his interest. 
Man's rural labour does not disfigure the land, but 
man himself—English man, at least—undoubtedly 
requires idealising, unless our national sentiment will 
allow us to reach M. Degas' point of stoical indiffer¬ 
ence to the beautiful. Mr. Macbeth is, of course, a 
figure-painter, and he deals with the British peasant 
in a manner which would fain be realistic but can¬ 
not; the subject is too unmanageably unpicturesque. 
In his studies of working gangs aroused from rest 

for the day's toil, of 
men and women at 
work ingathering tho 
potato - harvest, and 
of people, cattle, and 
pigs taking refuge 
from a flood, he has 
striven hard for real¬ 
ism of subject, and 
has succeeded with 
very pleasant effect; 
but in the figures 
themselves, in the 
types of feature and 
the character of ex¬ 
pression, in the mould 
of limb and the turn 
of gesture, he has as¬ 
suredly relied on other 
memories or other 
models than those of 
the Fen country. 
Slight reminiscences 
of Mr. Frederick Walker’s faces and figures are not 
unusual in his work; and although he avoids, with 
an artist's tact, any absurdity of false refinement or 
prettiness, he has not been able to deny himself a 
certain refinement of his own, no less unreal, if more 
judicious. One of the great charms of his picture of 
“ A Flood in the Fens " is its pleasing harmony of 
colours and its extreme brightness of tone; in the 
latter respect it is pushed up to a high point, the 
colours and tones striking a chord like that of an 
orchestra where the instruments are tuned up above 

Brilliant in the French group on Captain Hill's 
walls are the rich interiors of M. Duez, whose usual 
realistic studies of femmes clu movde in strong effects 
of daylight and no less strong effects of costume are 
less charming than the mellowed illumination of these 
compositions. “ Three Weeks After" is of course 
a honeymoon group, graceful, but quite sufficiently 
unsentimental. The tete-a-tete coffee service stands 
on its little French table; Monsieur is reading the 
morning paper to his more demonstrative bride, whose 
ample white wrapper lights the picture. The faces 
are in grey half-shadow, the background is a wall of 
gold-stamped Spanish leather, and the china is blue. 
The tone and colour of the picture throughout are 
cool and strong. 

Short was the career and limited the work of the 
young artist Val Bromley, who showed a certain 
promise which the fact of his early death has perhaps 
very naturally and justifiably exaggerated. “ A 
Midsummer Day in the Forest" is a pretty specimen 
of his talent, and has a sprightliness in its subject 



which is very attractive. The mediaeval dame 
scudding over the heather and fern of woodland 
undergrowth before the menaces of a flock of geese 
is graceful in outline and charmingly costumed. 
Evidently she considers the onslaught doubly terrific 
on account of the usually peaceful character of the 
pursuers, and the complete mystery which shrouds 
their too evidently hostile intentions. It is so diffi¬ 
cult to guess what a goose means to do to you if it 

A smaller woodcut illustrates Mr. Poole’s “ Cave of 
Mammon.” The late Academician was one of the 
very few artists of the modern school who practised 
romantic landscape. The anecdotal and the realistic 
were not in his genius. When at their height his 
powers were in a high sense poetical, a fact which 
may be questioned by those who knew his work 
only in the later pictures in recent Academies. 
Mr. Poole’s manner was such as could escape the 


(From the Painting by Duez, in the Possession of Captain Hill.) 

catches you, or what form the unexpected and obscure 
malignities of an ordinary pig would take if they had 
full play, that such enemies are the most uncomfort¬ 
able which a stranger meets in field or farmyard. 

Mr. Frank Holl’s “ Leaving Home,” the subject 
of our larger illustration, contains a varied interest, 
among few figures. The old man, uprooted by 
we know not what chance from the place where 
for seventy years he has grown with the trees 
and watched the harvests, the young soldier part¬ 
ing from his wife, the widow alone in the world 
for the first time, are at once united by a common 
pathos and divided by the difference of their sorrows. 

notice of nobody; his sameness of tone, a certain 
unreality of light, and the metallic glare of the 
colour—an effect invariable in his pictures, to what¬ 
ever time of day or effect of weather they related— 
wei’e always evident enough; nevertheless some of 
the recent International Exhibitions brought to light 
old examples of this Academician’s work in which 
such mannerisms were lost in the imagination and 
the sweetness of the thought and treatment. It 
has been the fate of several of our painters, now 
very aged or recently deceased, to be represented 
in these more artistic times by their least artistic 
work. Alice Meynell. 

(From the Painting by Frank Holt, A.It.A., in the Possession of Captain Hill, Brighton.) 



T all times there has been a 
notable sympathy between 
the great Conquerors and 
the great Artists of the 
world. A cynic 
might account for 
it by the vanity 
which is the cha¬ 
racteristic of the 
conqueror. Alexander 
o the Great was an ap¬ 
preciative patron of the 
famous sculptor and 
painter of his age, but 
he seems to have admired 
them most, after all, for their 
portraits of himself. The 
statue by Lysippus, which represented 
him grasping a spear and looking up 
to the heavens, pleased him greatly, and with 
somewhat barbaric taste he ordered the marble to 
be encased in gold. Apelles produced an allegorical 
picture of the conqueror wielding a thunderbolt; the 
great warrior was delighted, and exclaimed, “There 
are two Alexanders in the world : the son of Philip 
and the inimitable Alexander of Apelles/'’ The 
warrior, however, was no great critic; and when he 
ventured some remarks in the painter’s studio, Apelles 
advised him to be silent, as the colour-grinders were 
laughing at him. Alexander had sufficient admi¬ 
ration for the artist to accept the rebuke with good¬ 
will. A still deeper homage was paid to Art by 
Demetrius Poliorcetes. When Demetrius laid siege to 
the town of Rhodes, he found himself unable to attack 
except upon the side where the studio of Protogenes 
would have been exposed to danger; he chose then 
to renounce the glory of his conquest rather than risk 
the destruction of the famous picture of Jalisus, a 
notable hunter upon which the painter was engaged. 
L. Mummius, after his capture of Corinth, carried off 
many pictures, statues, and other works of art to 
Rome. The dispersion of the Corinthian treasures 
created a great sensation amongst the men of the day. 
Attalus, King of Pergamus, offered Mummius neai’ly 
£5,000 for the “ Bacchus” of Aristides; but Mum¬ 
mius, believing some hidden virtue must be in the 
picture to make it worth such a sum, refused to 
part with it, and placed it in the Temple of Ceres. 
The immense sums paid for statues and paintings 
in that age give good proof of the respect in which 
the Arts were held. Attalus paid nearly £20,000 



for another picture he coveted amongst the spoils 
of Mummius ; Julius Caesar paid £15,000 for the 
“ Medea ” and “ Ajax ” of Timomachus; while 
the “ Aphrodite Anadyomene,” Apelles’ masterpiece, 
cost Augustus £20,000. 

Those were the bright days for artists, but their 
inspiration died away in the decay of society which 
followed, and taste itself departed. It was not till 
the revival of Italian painting that a picture again 
commanded the homage of a conqueror. Who has 
not heard of Cimabue’s masterpiece, the colossal 
Rucella’i “ Madonna,” in the Church of Sta. Maria 
Novella at Florence ? The painter had allowed no 
one to see it dui’ing its progress, but when Charles 
of Anjou entered Florence, he threw open his doors 
and permitted the monarch to enter. Charles and 
the Florentines were entranced; and such was the 
delight and gladness occasioned by the sight of 
the picture, that the quarter in which the painter 
lived was thenceforward called the Borgo Allegri. 
The picture was carried in grand procession from 
the studio to the church. Leighton’s fine picture of 
this incident eai’ned him his first fame in England, 
and was purchased by Her Majesty. 

Such honour, however, was by no means the 
general fortune of the quaUro-centisti. For many 
years, in some parts, at least, of Italy, their position 
was not very greatly superior to that of a skilled 
mechanic. Pictures are not infrequent which are 
signed with three signatures—those of the painter, 
the carver of the frame, and the gilder, showing 
they were all rated much upon an equality by their 
contemporaries. The artist, indeed, was still held 
little better than a decorator. He was expected to 
turn from an altar-piece or a ceiling to paint armour, 
banners, coaches, or furniture. He was not generally 
paid as for a work of art, but hired by the time, 
at so much a day, like any journeyman. 

A common title amongst the early Flemish 
painters was that of varlet cle chambre to some great 
lord their patron. Jan van Eyck was painter varlet 
de chambre to Duke John of Bavaria. Though this 
was held as a post of honour, its duties included 
work that falls in these days—perhaps unfortunately 
—to the upholsterer. He planned the jousts, he or¬ 
dered the revels, he marshalled the processions, which 
brightened the life of the Middle Ages. The title 
of Sergeant-Painter to the King recalls a no less mis¬ 
cellaneous office at the English Court. In the reign 
of Henry VIII., Harry Blankston, of London, was 
employed to paint the chapel at Hampton Court with 



angels holding escutcheons and boys playing on instru¬ 
ments of music—the whole very splendid, according 
to Hentzner (writing in 1598) ; at another time he 
receives nineteen pence for painting a butt for the 
King to shoot pellets at. So in the time of Charles I., 
John de Cretz, sergeant - painter, paints a ceiling in 
the Royal residence at Oat lands, and later on receives 
a considerable pay¬ 
ment for painting, 
gilding, and beau¬ 
tifying the state 
barge. The latter 
labour, as well as 
that of decorating 
the state coaches, 
was a special duty 
of the office. The de¬ 
coration of coaches, 
indeed, was always 
accounted artistic 
work; and John 
Baker, a flower- 
painter, and a foun¬ 
dation member of 
the Royal Academy, 
found his principal 
employment therein. 

Never, perhaps, 
in the world’s his¬ 
tory did Art win a 
more genuine and 
discriminating ho¬ 
mage than in the 
Italian cities of 
the Renaissance. 

Leonardo da Vinci 
was invited 

I.; he did not live 
long enough, how¬ 
ever, to enjoy that 
monarch’s patron¬ 
age. He is, indeed, 
said to have died in 
his arms; but the 
story has been long since disproved. Leonardo 
died at Cloux; Francis I. lived at the time at 
Germain-en-Lave, and various circumstances made 
it impossible for the King to be absent from his 
Court. Many years after, another invader from 
France renewed his homage to Leonardo. When 
Napoleon Buonaparte entered Milan, lie stood before 
the painter’s noble masterpiece, the “ Last Supper,” 
in the Refectory of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, and tear¬ 
ing a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote out an order 
exempting the convent from military occupation. 

His followers interpreted the command after a 
fashion of their own, for they converted the re¬ 
fectory into a forage warehouse, and amused them¬ 
selves by making a target of the head of Leonardo’s 

Of the honours showered upon Titian we have 
told elsewhere. The monarchs of France, Germany, 

and Spain expressed 
their reverence for 
his splendid talents 
by gifts and titles 
and courtesies. The 
intimacy of princes, 
however, had its dis¬ 
advantages in those 
days of despotism. 
Antonis de Mor (Sir 
Antonio Moro, as 
he is commonly 
called) was upon 
the most familiar 
terms with Philip 
II. of Spain, the 
husband of our 
Queen Mary. On 
one occasion Philip 
playfully slapped 
the painter on the 
back, and De Mor 
retorted by rubbing 
some colour on His 
Majesty’s hand. 
The King treated 
the matter as a 
warranted by 
his own conduct; 
but being warned 
that the Inquisition 
took a more serious 
view of this affront 
to his sacred Ma¬ 
jesty, he dismissed 
him his service. 
De Mor retired to 
Antwerp, where he 
was received into favour by the Duke of Alva, the 
terrible tyrant whose very frown is said to have killed 
the painter William Kay. Antonis de Mor remained 
at Antwerp until his death in 1581, notwithstanding 
pressing invitations from Philip to return to Spain. 
He had been knighted by our own Flenry VIII., to 
whom he had been sent by Charles V. 

Till the reign of King Hal, England had re¬ 
mained almost untouched by the artistic feeling that 
moved her neighbours. But the Tudor nobility 
travelled in Italy, and shared in the pageants of the 


(From the Fainting by Holbein.) 



French Court; and they caught something o£ the 
universal taste for letters, culture, and beauty. 
Henry himself had a real passion for the arts, and 
made efforts to attract Raphael, Primaticcio, and 
others to his Court; but the reputation of our country 
was barbarous, and only second-rate men would let 
themselves be persuaded. Holbein was an excep¬ 
tion. He arrived in England in 1526, was lodged 
in the Royal palace, and treated with much honour. 
His portrait of Anne of Cleves is well known. It 
is said that Holbein being once annoyed by the 
impertinence of a young noble, summarily ejected 
him by kicking him out of the room. The youth, 
smarting with the insult and the pain, complained of 
his treatment to the King, who, however, sided with 
Holbein, and observing that he could easily make 
half a dozen nobles out of as many ploughboys, but 
he could never succeed in making a Holbein out of 
six nobles. Charles I., too, well knew how to value 
the true artist when he found him. For his guest 
Rubens no honour seemed to him too great. He 
knighted him, presented him with the sword em¬ 
ployed in the ceremony (the hilt studded with 
diamonds), and added to his arms “a lion or, on a 
canton gules/'’ Yandyck, again, he lodged at the 
national expense in a house at Blackfriars built for 
him by Inigo Jones. Him, too, he knighted. The 
painter received a gold collar with the King’s portrait 
set in diamonds. He married the Queen’s maid-in- 
waiting ; was treated en camaracle by the King and 
the aristocracy; and, finally, was buried in Old St. 
Paul’s, beside the tomb of John of Gaunt. 

Verrio was much employed by Charles II., and 
was evidently treated with familiarity by the King. 
He was a wasteful and extravagant man. On one 
occasion, when he asked for a further advance, the 
King objected that he had only very recently given 
him a large sum. The painter answered that that 
was all gone, and that he had no money to pay his 
workmen. “ Why,” returned the King, “ your ex¬ 
penditure must be greater than mine.” “ That is 
very possible,” answered the privileged painter, “ for 
your Majesty does not keep open table as I do.” 
George III. maintained Biagio Rebecca, now for¬ 
gotten, on similar terms of familiarity. Rebecca was 
fond of employing his art in practical jokes ; he used 
to paint imitation half-crowns, drop them on the 
floor, and wait for his enjoyment in the chagrin of 
the disappointed finder, and was especially delighted 
if the King himself proved the victim of his babyish 

In contrast to the artists already mentioned, the 
lack of Royal favour which was the lot of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds was remarkable. He did, however, receive 
an invitation to paint the King and Queen upon his 
acceptance of the Presidentship of the new Academy. 

Two other portraits of Queen Charlotte by Reynolds 
are known—a three-quarter length at Queen’s Col¬ 
lege, Oxford, and a whole-length at Sion House. 
This was the extent of the patronage he received 
from the Court. The reasons for this disfavour and 
neglect are not far to seek; his vigorous and rapid 
execution appeared coarse and unfinished to the King, 
who was very short-sighted, and was compelled to 
post himself close to the canvas, so that he was 
unable to appreciate the effect as a whole. But early 
in his career Reynolds had given grave offence to His 
Majesty. A messenger came to him, inviting him to 
make a drawing of the coronation procession, with 
a view to a commission from the King. Reynolds 
replied that he was not fond of making drawings, 
but that he would make an oil sketch, provided a 
thousand guineas were guaranteed him for the pic¬ 
ture. The messenger remonstrated with him for this 
want of faith in the honour of a Royal personage, and 
Reynolds heard nothing further of this commission, 
nor, indeed, of any other from the Court. The in¬ 
habitants of his native town of Plympton did their 
best to honour their one great man; they elected him 
alderman in 1772, and mayor in 1773, and greatly 
pleased him thereby. Meeting the King one morn¬ 
ing in Richmond Gardens, he told him that his new 
dignity had given him greater pleasure than any 
other in his life, “ except,” said he, recollecting 
himself, “ that which your Majesty was pleased to 
confer upon me.” Of Northcote, his principal pupil, 
we have a characteristic anecdote. When the Prince 
Regent told him that the King had in conversa¬ 
tion claimed the painter as his friend, Northcote 
replied that if His Majesty had said so, it was only 
his brag. 

Artists are now-a-days more independent than 
ever. About 1835, when it was decided to decorate 
the Madeleine, Thiers consulted with Paul Delaroche. 
The painter strongly urged that the whole work 
should be given to one man, and enlarged upon the 
danger of incongruity resulting from the employment 
of several palettes. Thiers, convinced by his argu¬ 
ments, gave him the whole work, with 25,000 francs 
for preliminary expenses; and he went off to Italy 
to prepare his cartoons. Two years after, he was 
informed that Ziegler had been commissioned to 
paint in his stead. He returned to Paris, threw 
up his commission, and refunded the 25,000 francs. 
Louis Philippe interfered, and after trying in vain 
to persuade him either to paint the cupola or to 
take back the 25,000 francs, prevailed upon him 
to undertake the decoration of the hemicycle of the 
Palais des Beaux-Arts. Delaroche was not exactly 
a great painter, but his loyalty to his conceptions of 
his art won him the lasting respect of the French 


THE BURGOMASTER.” From the Painting by H. Kotschenreiter. 

OTH1NG is more striking- in contemporary 
German art than its extraordinary success in 
realising- the humours of daily life. When, on the 

other hand, it has attempted “ history ” in the 
ordinary artistic sense, it has produced those delibe¬ 
rate, determined, and utterly uninspired works of 
the grand school which cover the complacent acreages 
of wall-space in the modern Pinacothek at Munich. 
If steadfast resolve and well-placed ambition were 
indeed as powerful as they are sometimes proclaimed 
to be, Bavaria would certainly have produced in her 
capital the younger Athens at which she aimed; but 
perhaps nowhere and at no time in the history of 
Art has the indispensability of genius been established 
and proved at a greater expense of human labour 

and strain than in late times in modern Munich. 
There we have ingenuity in place of imagination, 
posture in place of impulse, effort in place of action, 
and eyes askance in place of expression. 
The learned little crowd of resolute German 
“masters,” welcomed and liberally patron¬ 
ised by the “cultivated Court” of the 
former King of Bavaria, produced less, as 
regards the vital quality of art, than did 
some quasi-barbarous beginner in Siena 
before Giotto had painted the walls of Assisi. 
On the other hand, there is a yet later 
development of German art—realistic, like 
almost all the living art of our day, rather 
than imaginative—which contains essen¬ 
tially that very element of vitality. This 
is an art which is not that of “ masters,” 
which deals with subjects from the life 
of the people, and which is informed with 
an exquisite and powerful intelligence in 
the apprehension of character, type, action, 
and expression. At the same time its 
technical methods are so excellent and 
so learned, and its draughtsmanship so 
strong, that it is in no disparaging 
sense that we characterise it as homely. 
In fact, the heroic pictures of the more 
ambitious painters to whom we have 
alluded are, by some curious chance, really 
weaker in drawing than is the work 
of those eminently sure and observant 
artists who study daily life in Germany 
with so keen a glance and so intense an 
understanding. Bor the “ masters ” of 
Munich are too academic to be in the 
highest sense corx-ect; their anatomy is 
studied in the schools, not in strenuous 
and unconscious action, and they know 
more of the structure of the forms in 
pose, repose, or death, than of their infinite modifi¬ 
cations, accidents, and energies in life and action. 

Herr Kotschenreiter’s “Burgomaster” is an ex¬ 
cellent example of the realistic art of Germany. It 
is studied from a type of Bavarian villager fast dis¬ 
appearing in the universal change which is passing 
over burgher and peasant. Times alter, however, 
more slowly in rural Bavaria and in the neigh¬ 
bouring Tyrol than in many other parts of the world, 
and this type is essentially South-German, the very 
character of the hands having been studied with 
great intelligence. 


(From the Painting by H. Kotschenreiter.) 




A MERICAN art has until recently been most dis¬ 
tinguished, both at home and abroad, for its 
success in the department of landscape. This has 
been not so much because landscape has had no rivals 

lead them to combine in harmonious action to one 
common end. Up to this time the thought upper¬ 
most among Americans has been to explore the vast 
territory which Providence has entrusted to their care, 

(From the Painting by Hamilton Hamilton.) 

in portraiture and genre, but because it has been 
followed by a much larger number of painters, who 
have displayed an originality and power that have 
justly merited popular applause. Nor is this at all 
singular. It is but another exemplification of the 
fact that art is based on utility, and that in the 
development of a nation the various faculties of the 
mind are unconsciously swayed by higher laws which 

to discover its hidden resources, and bring them into 
practical use in strengthening and welding together 
the multitudes who are flocking to the Western Con¬ 
tinent from all parts of the earth. 

Led by an unseen hand, the landscape-painters of 
America have contributed to further this grand result; 
and never before has there been a nobler opportunity 
afforded the artist to aid in the growth of his native 



land, and to feel that, while ministering to his own 
love of the sublime and the beautiful, he was at the 
same time a teacher and a co-worker with the pioneer, 
the man of science, and the soldier, who cleared, sur¬ 
veyed, and held this mighty continent, and brought 
it under the mild sway of civilisation. The people 
aspired to learn not only statistical facts regarding 
their heritage, but also its scenic attractions. Nothing 
was amiss which could add to the sum of their know¬ 
ledge of the subject. And thus the artist had a 
mission marked out for him magnificent in the possi¬ 
bilities it offered. 

When landscape-painting first began to find ex¬ 
pression in America with Doughty, Cole, and Durand 
it was naturally faltering, and felt its way slowly. 
The means for traversing the great spaces of the 
country were limited and tedious; but as steamboats 
began to navigate the rivers, and railways covered the 
land with a network of steel, the landscape-painters 
kept pace with the march of improvement. At that 
time the great modern school of European landscape¬ 
painting, headed by such men as Turner, David Cox, 
Constable, Dupre, Corot, Daubigny, and Rousseau, 
was in its infancy, and its influence has not been felt 
in America until within a few years. 

The American artists were acquainted only with 
such landscape art as that of Salvator, Claude, or 
Ruisdael. We see suggestions of them all in the 
works of Cole, who, however, made a number of suc¬ 
cessful efforts at an original style. But Durand from 
the first abandoned the conventional style of such 
painters, and expressed a sturdy realism, softened by 
a rugged poetic sentiment. He loved the woods and 
waters of his own country sincerely, and he clearly 
saw that the art of America was struggling for ex¬ 
pression tinder' new conditions. His numerous suc¬ 
cessors have recognised the same fact, and in repre¬ 
senting the varied scenery of America have adapted 
their style to what they saw before them. When 
one considers that- the great majority have had the 
most meagre opportunities of art-education, com¬ 
pared with those enjoyed by the students of Paris 
and London, who have been nurtured in the very 
atmosphere of art, the wonder is, not that they some¬ 
times exhibit technical weakness, but that they have 
so often produced works creditable to the artist and 
the country alike. 

And what a field American landscape-painters 
have had from which to choose material for their 
works ! All the world has heard of the paintings 
of Frederick E. Church, who has so nobly illustrated 
the scenery of both North and South America. 

One of the most distinguished of those painters 
who have demonstrated the quality of American art 
and the grandeur of American scenery is Thomas 
Moran. He was born in Bolton, Lancashire, in 1837. 

II is father was of Irish extraction, and his mother 
was an Englishwoman. She must have been a woman 
of remarkable force and character, when we consider 
the talent her sons have inherited from their mother. 
One of them is a great landscape-painter, another has 
distinguished himself as an animal-painter, while yet 
another has won reputation in marine-painting. Her 
grandchddren are likewise rapidly winning position 
in genre. It is noteworthy that the brothers are 
married to ladies who are well known as painters and 
etchers. The family, therefore, already includes nine 
living artists of more than average ability. 

When Thomas Moran was seven years of age his 
parents crossed the Atlantic and ’settled in Phila¬ 
delphia. He received a fair education at school, and 
was then placed with a wood-engraver, with whom he 
remained two years, and acquired a good knowledge 
of the art. This has undoubtedly been of the greatest 
service to him, for it gave him firmness and steadi¬ 
ness of touch, together with accuracy and persistent 
effort. It may be said to constitute all the direct 
art-education Mr. Moran has ever received. 

But, while he never took lessons in a studio, he 
was quick at observing, and was happily so situated 
as to be brought into contact with a number of able 
artists, at a time when Philadelphia was scarcely 
behind New York in richness of art influences and 
facilities. Chief among the artists with whom young 
Moran associated was James Hamilton, the marine- 
painter, who was one of the most imaginative artists 
of this century. Hamilton lived next door to the 
At ora ns, and took a great interest in the early efforts 
of Thomas Moran. Not only did he aid him with 
wholesome advice, but out of his scanty purse he 
sometimes purchased some of the young artist's 
water-colours; for after leaving the engraver's, 
Air. Moran had devoted himself to water-colour 
painting, and with such success that he was soon 
able to find a rapid sale for his sketches. 

At the age of twenty-three, Mr. Moran took 
up oil-colours, and painted a scene from Shelley's 
“ Alastor." The subject was highly characteristic of 
his mental cast, for imagination is perhaps his master 
quality. He sailed for England in 1862, thirsting 
for larger opportunities of self-improvement. While 
in London he made a special study of Turner’s works 
in the National Gallery, several of which he care¬ 
fully copied. His admiration for Turner has un¬ 
doubtedly influenced him as a colourist, being quite 
traceable in some of his works, though never to such 
a degree as to indicate the effacement of his own in- 
dividuality. On his return to America, Mr. Moran's 
remarkable fertility of fancy, aided by his great 
technical skill and rapidity of execution, brought 
numerous demands on his pencil, and he soon ac¬ 
quired repute as an illustrator of books and magazines. 



It was this which eventually led him to settle in New 
York; Scribner’s Monthly gave him so many com¬ 
missions that in order to be near the publishers he 
removed to that city. As a proof of his readiness 
and popularity, it may be stated that during the last 
eight years, in addition to the large number of paint¬ 
ings and etchings he has produced, he has designed 
over 2,000 illustrations. 

Mr. Moran re-visited Europe in 1866, and made a 
careful study of the works of the masters in France, 
Italy, and Germany. On his return in 1871 an 
opportunity was offered him of accompanying the 
United States' exploring expedition conducted by 
Processor Hayden to the Yellowstone River in 
Wyoming territory. This river courses through a 
most extraordinary region. It is of sulphureous for¬ 
mation. Hot springs and geysers abound, and the 
sulphur rocks and cliffs assume the most fantastic 
shapes, and are tinted with vivid blue, red, and 
especially yellow colours. Sometimes one can, with¬ 
out any stretch of fancy, imagine himself in some 
deserted city of the orient, whose highly-coloured 
walls, battlements, palaces, minarets, and towers yet 
remain, while all the inhabitants are gone except 
the vulture and the kite and the lizard. Through 
a narrow tortuous seam in this singular country 
winds the Yellowstone River; the gorge is often 
1,000 feet deep. Mr. Moran took many careful 
sketches, chiefly in water-colours, of these impressive 
scenes, some of which, I believe, are now owned at 
Salisbury, England. On his return to New York 
he resumed his impressions upon a canvas 12 feet 
long and 7 feet broad. It was called “ The Grand 
Canon of the Yellowstone." The extraordinary forms 
and colours it contained were a revelation to the 
public. No such scenery had ever been discovered or 
imagined before. The terrible desolation, the appall¬ 
ing magnificence and grandeur of these castellated 
cliffs, draped with the hues of the rainbow, were 
bewilderingly fascinating. The representative cha¬ 
racter of the work, as well as its artistic merit, gave 
it a national importance. It was purchased by Con¬ 
gress for 10,009 dollars, and hung in the Capitol at 

‘The following year Mr. Moran made a trip to 
the famous valley of the Yosemite in California, 
where he made many interesting studies. In 1873 
he accompanied the expedition conducted by Major 
Powell under the auspices of the Government, to 
explore the little known country through which 
rolls the Colorado River. The tremendous character 
of this part of America may be gathered from 
the fact that for 200 miles the stream descends 
at the rate of 500 to 200 feet a mile through a 
chasm averaging less than 300 feet in width. 
The walls of this awful gorge are 7,000 feet in 

depth, the cliffs seeming to close in overhead and 
to leave only a faint crack through which the sky 
dimly appears. 

The descent of this terrible river, to which the 
Acheron of the ancients in Acarnania is a mere 
summer rivulet, has only twice been made. The 
first time it was accomplished by James White, in 
1867. Pie had several companions who were tra¬ 
versing the west with him. Being pursued by the 
Indians, their only hope of escape was to betake 
themselves to the waters of this unknown river, of 
whose appalling character they had only the faintest 
idea. Hastily constructing a frail raft, and trusting 
themselves to Providence, they launched on the 
turbulent tide. The provisions and all on board 
the raft were washed off in descending one of the 
rapids, excepting White alone. For ten days after 
that he drifted with the river, through that sub¬ 
terranean chasm, in a solitude such as no human 
being has probably ever experienced before, and 
with scarce any expectation of ever re-visiting the 
glimpses of the moon. But destiny was in his favour 
—the world needed to know of this wonderful river. 
Almost dead with hunger and terror, he at last 
arrived at the settlement of Collville, after a voyage 
that eclipses the exploits of Sinbad the Sailor. 

It is one of the most picturesque and least for¬ 
bidding aspects of this river that appears in the 
painting made by Mr. Moran on his return from this 
expedition. It is of the same size as his Yellowstone 
picture; and he calls it the “ Grand Chasm of the 
Colorado." This also was purchased by Congress for 
10,000 dollars. 

The formation of the Colorado cliffs is alto¬ 
gether different from that of those along the Yellow¬ 
stone. They are of red sandstone; and the geologist 
in studying them can follow all the processes by 
which Nature constructs her rock-fortresses through 
the long procession of the ages. Major Powell’s 
expedition, in boats especially constructed for the 
purpose, succeeded James White in tracing the 
course of the Colorado, and made such a scientific 
study of its character as the terrible difficulties they 
had to encounter would permit. It hardly seems 
probable that the Colorado will ever become a resort 
for picnic parties or the followers of the rod. 

Mr. Moran’s zest of travel and exploration, his 
enthusiasm for the grander aspects of nature, had 
been, not satisfied, but stimulated by what he had 
already seen, and urged him to further adventure. 
Therefore he turned his face westward again in 
the following year. This time it was to the Rocky 
Mountains that he directed his attention. The result 
was, if less startling, perhaps more pleasing than that 
of his previous expeditions. He brought home with 
him studies which matured into a painting of marked 



originality and power. It was called “ The Mountain 
of the Holy Cross,” and represents one of the most 
remarkable peaks of the great range which forms 
the water-shed of North America. 

This mountain lies about 150 miles west of 
Denver. Its name is due to the early Spanish 
missionaries, and was suggested by a curious phe¬ 
nomenon at khe summit: Two rifts or clefts in the 
rock several hundred feet in length bisect each other 
in such wise as to form a cross. In these clefts the 
snow lies eternal; when it melts and flows from the 
great mountain in summer, it remains in that vast 
sculptured cross, a white mark visible from a long 
distance. Who shall say that there is not a sym¬ 
bolical meaning here ? Who can affirm that it is 
accident alone which placed the sacred sign on the 
brow of the Mountain of the Holy Cross? 

Nor has Mr. Moran’s genius confined itself to 
the delineation of the sublime scenery of the great 
west. He has also visited the south, and revelled in 
its gorgeous colours and its affluence of tropic vege¬ 
tation. The music of the palm has touched his soul, 
and the tender azure of the skies which overarch 
Mexico’s Gulf has kindled his fancy. Among the 
number of admirable paintings suggested by such 
scenes may be mentioned his “ Ponce de Leon in 
Florida.” This is a large canvas, and represents a 
clearing, or rather an opening, in a dense, luxuriant 
grove of palms and oaks, draped with the long fes¬ 
toons of Spanish moss. A little on one side of this 
clearing De Leon and his companions are seen coming 
to a halt. The grouping of the figures is excellent 
and attractive ; but the chief merit of the painting 
is the poetic faithfulness with which the character of 
a southern forest is suggested. The pendulous masses 
of graceful foliage are most effectively rendered, and 
make this one of Mr. Moran’s finest works. 

Ilis versatility appears again in the representation 
of cpiiet woodland scenes about home, or oozy flats near 
Brooklyn, above which loom, half hidden in mist, the 
warehouses and wharves of a great city on a sullen, 
melancholy day in October. Few artists, again, have 
undertaken to paint so many varieties of cloud-scenery. 
Indeed, there is scarcely an effect of nature which 
Mr. Moran has not represented, and generally with 
excellent success. While he reverences the local 
truth of a scene, conscious that it is impossible for 
man to improve the creations of the Almighty, he 
so renders it as to give it the unmistakable stamp of 
his own mind and style, and invests it with the poetic 
sentiment of a highly-wrought imagination. At the 
same time there is little, if any, of the subtle feeling 
of impressionism in his method. While there is suffi¬ 
cient breadth in his treatment; while details, although 
abundantly given, ai-e subordinated to the central 
idea; there is little of that suggestiveness in his 

work which is so highly esteemed at the present 
day. He makes a frank statement of what he sees or 
desires to express. The imagination of the beholder is 
in no sense over-taxed before his paintings. This, 
perhaps, is the true way when one is giving a repre¬ 
sentation of an actual scene with strongly-marked 
features of its own; and it must be admitted that 
such a method is far more likely to win popular in¬ 
terest than one that is more subtle and refined. 

Mr. Moran employs colour with great mastery; 
there is no thinness or weakness evident in his paint¬ 
ings. The texture of rocks and foliage is carefully 
and truthfully reproduced. He is partial to the 
brighter aspects of nature, and succeeds in represent¬ 
ing them without conveying the impression of garish¬ 
ness. A painting he has recently completed shows 
a sublime, isolated peak, cloven in the centre, that 
soars like a Titanic feudal tower above the banks of 
the Green River, a tributary of the Colorado. The 
colours of this natural fortress are vivid copper, 
streaked with vermilion, and merging into leaden- 
grey. It is painted sun-smitten against the fore¬ 
boding gloom of a coming storm. The broad river 
flows grandly at its base through an endless plain 
that fades off like the ocean into the infinite. In the 
foreground a troop of Indian warriors, in the gay 
accoutrements of battle, are guiding their spirited 
ponies through long sere herbage to the river’s brink. 
The colours in this painting, with the contrasted 
greys and reds, are very striking, and yet are so 
admirably harmonised that one is convinced without 
hesitation that the scene must be strictly true to 

During the last two years Mr. Moran has given 
much attention to etching on copper. When he was 
residing in Philadelphia he not only learned to engrave 
on wood, but did much lithography as well. He 
also invented a simple process of etching on glass. 
Covering a plate of glass with a thin film of collodion, 
he traced the design on it with a sharply-pointed 
stick. On placing the glass over a dark background, 
a very delicate etching became apparent. His ex¬ 
perience of these forms of engraving has been of 
advantage to him in executing the admirable etch¬ 
ings which have already attracted the attention of 
connoisseurs both at home and abroad. He and his 
wife (Mrs. Mary Nimmo Moran) are both Fellows 
of the British Society of Painter-Etchers. 

Among some of his more important works may 
also be mentioned “ The Pictured Rocks of Lake 
Superior,” “ The Track of the Storm,” “ The Flight 
into Egypt,” and “ The Children of the Mountain.” 
The highly-imaginative series of drawings illustrating 
“ Hiawatha ” are also finely designed, and are in 
every way worthy of the famous legend. A cut of 
one of this series, several of which have been already 


{From the Picture hy Thomas Moran.) 




engraved on steel, accompanies this article. It 
illustrates the following episode in Longfellow's 
beautiful poem :—■ 

“ Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 

The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 

Lying huge upon the water, 

Sparkling, rippling in the water, 

Lying coiled across the passage, 

With their blazing crests uplifted, 

Breathing fiery fogs and vapours, 

So that none could pass beyond them. 

scene with his accustomed vivacity of imagination, 
and has shown us the Indian hero, a kind of redskin 
Hercules, meeting in his birch-bark canoe with the 
pestilent and fearful monsters, “ breathing fogs and 
fiery vapours/' of whom his tribe stand so much 
in dread. Beyond him is an awe-inspiring sunset, 
whose fiery gleams light up the black and slug¬ 
gish water upon which he is depicted as sailing. 
Around him on every hand are gloomy cliffs and 
strange-shaped bluffs—the principal features in the 

(From the Drawing by Thomas Moran.) 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 

‘ Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 

Let me go upon my journey ! ’ 

And they answered, hissing fiercely, 

With their fiery breath made answer : 

‘ Back, go back, 0 Shaugodaya! 

Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!’ 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 

Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 

Shot them fast among the serpents; 

Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 

Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek.” 

It is not often that a designer has so excellent 
an opportunity as is afforded by these picturesque 
and vigorous lines. Mr. Moran has depicted the 

poetic landscape. Before him are his enemies, the 
Kenabeek; and he must conquer them or perish. 
The design is one of undoubted poetry and spirit; 
and Mr. Moran is heartily to be congratulated 
on his successful accomplishment of a very difficulf 

In considering the variety and excellence of Mr. 
Moran's attainments in art, it is impossible to assign 
him any other than very great ability. If he has not 
achieved the highest flights of art, he has yet ex¬ 
hibited extraordinary versatility in doing many things 
and doing them well, together with a very unusual 
exuberance of imagination. Furthermore, the public 
owe him a debt of gratitude for the enterprise and 
ability which have done so much to entertain and 
instruct. S. Gf. W. Benjamin. 



ELS!—1 am told tliat a shoemaker 
can prove that without leather life 
would be a blank, if not an impos¬ 
sibility. But have you ever con¬ 
sidered what a blank life 
would be without bells ? I 
have; and in my article on 
“Bells” in the “Encyclo¬ 
paedia Britannica ” I have 
noted over thirty uses of 
- — small bells only. 
—- I do not ask 
where would you 
be without the 
big ones, but 
where even with¬ 
out the little ones ? You want your servant, but the 
bell-wire has broken; the time of night, but the 
clock won’t strike; you would rise early, your 
alarm won’t go off; the cow’s bell is gone, and 
she strays; the plough-horse misses his ringing 
bauble, and flags; you lose your muffins, for the 
policeman has been down on the muffin-man’s bell; 
the town-crier feels lost without his bell, and bawls 
unheeded; the dinner-bell ceases to call the hungry; 
the shop-bell gives no warning of the buyer’s en¬ 
trance, nor the shutter-bell of the burglar; ’tis no 
longer “ knock and ring,” and the guest knocks in 
vain; the invalid’s hand-bell calls not the nurse; 
the kitchen-bell calls not the cook; the coral and 
hells soothe not the fretful infant. The vision of 
human misery and loss which rises before me is too 
appalling, and all for the want of a few little bells. 
I will pass on. 

Up to 1500 the history of bells will lie very well 
in a nutshell. We can leave the Biblical critics to 
fight over the bells in Exodus xxviii. 32—-35, and 
Mr. Layard to puzzle the antiquaries with his bells 
from Nineveh. The following statements may be 
relied upon, and are enough. Small bells were used 
before large ones, and large ones were used in India 
and China long before they reached Europe. Lucian, 
about 180 a.d., mentions a bell rung by a water-clock 
—a clepsydra. The Romans used bells at the baths, 
and the Christian Church adopted them about 400. 
In 550 they were common in France; in 650 they 
had got to England; and in the tenth and eleventh 
centuries they were common in Switzerland and Ger¬ 
many. St. Patrick’s bell at Belfast (1091), alluded 
to in the “ Ulster Annals,” 552, is still to be seen; 
St. Ninian’s bell at Edinburgh we give a sketch 

of ; St. Gall’s bell (646) is at St. Gall, Switzerland. 
These were hand-bells. The oldest are quadrangular, 
made of thin plates of copper or iron, hammered and 
riveted together, and must always have had a most 
vile sound, which, as they were much used for 
frightening the devil, may have been one of their 
chief merits. 

Orleans boasted of a bell of 2,600 lbs. in the 
eleventh century. Paris had her “ Jacqueline,” 
15,000 lbs., in 1400; and Rouen her “ Amboise,” of 
36,364 lbs., in 1501. Bells were not uncommonly 
sent from Italy and France to England, as presents 
from the Pope or foreign potentates. Such were the 
five bells in King’s College, Cambridge, sent in 1456 
by Pope Calixtus III. The great bell of Moscow is 
the largest in the world. It is called the “ Czar 
Kolokol ”—king of bells; but it was never used. It 
was cast in 1734, but is badly cracked. It weighs 
193 tons, and now rests on the ground and serves for 
a chapel; it is 21 feet high. Another Moscow bell, 
cast in 1819, weighs 80 tons. Next to these come 
the Pekin bell, 14 feet high, 53^ tons; those at 




Olmutz, Rouen, Vienna, about 18 tons; “ Big Ben,” 
Westminster (cracked), 14 tons; Montreal, 13 ^ tons; 
York, 10|; Lincoln, 5^; St. Paul's old bell, 5-£. 

With 1550—1750 we reach the golden age of bells, 
and in Belgium we touch the classic land of bells. 
But before I give some account of the further history 
of the bells in Europe and the triumphs of the bell 
art, especially in the Low Countries, I should like to 
call attention to the romantic position of the bells as 
they hang at this moment, hoary with age, in 
their venerable tower. 

As we wing our imaginary flight from 
one ancient belfry to another, “the kingdoms 
of the world and the glory of them” literally 
pass in review before us. The boom of “ Great 
Tom ” in St. Paul's Cathedral floats over the 
winding Thames, reaches to the brows of the 
Hampstead Hills—the only outlines, perchance, 
which remain unbroken from the time of the 
Druids. It is, too, strange in the silence of 
the night, whilst the moon sets forth over the 
Colosseum and sparkles upon the pinnacles that 
rise on either side of Michael Angelo’s great 
dome, to hear the brazen tongue of the Capitol 
bell answering across the city to the clang of 
St. Peter's. Striking sound ! parable of the un¬ 
broken continuity of a people's life. Eternal Aves ! 
for ever wafted from the sepulchres of the Caesars 
to the mausoleum of the Popes! 

Impressive as is the view from Strasburg tower 
across the Alsatian plain to the Vosges, or that from 
Milan over the rich Lombard plain to the Alps, or 
from Salisbury or Durham, perhaps the panorama 
from Notre Dame at Antwerp bears off the palm for 
extent and singularity. One hundred and twenty- 
six steeples on a clear day may be seen from the 
Antwerp tower. Facing north, the Scheldt dis¬ 
appears in the North Sea, and ship-captains declare 
that they can make out Antwerp spire for 150 miles. 
Yonder are Middleburg at full 75, Flessing at 65, 
and, towards Holland, Breda and Walladuc, about 54 
miles off; to the south, almost all the great Belgian 
towers are in sight of each other-—St. Gudule’s at 
Brussels, and Mechlin, and a host of others, mostly 
having carillons or large suites of bells tuned musically, 
such as at Bruges, Tournay, Mechlin, or Louvain. 

In every village, in every town, the top of the 
tower ought to be the first place to which the tra¬ 
veller should repair. There he would get the finest 
view, there he ought to find the cleanest staircase, the 
trimmest belfry, the sweetest bells. Let deans and 
chapters see to it anon. A little bell meditation 
would save cruel ruin and much expense. Every¬ 
where I find the hanging of the bells neglected, and 
never without damage to the tower. No one knows, 
no one cares, until one fine day the tower cracks. 

I verily believe that since I have lifted up my 
voice, in season and out of season, some improvement 
has taken place. I have received letters on this 
matter from all parts of the country, which prove 
to me that interest in bells has revived, and led to 
the examination of many a neglected belfry; and a 
few timely visits have opened the eyes of responsible 
ecclesiastics not only to cracked bells, but to rotten 
stairs, filthy lofts, loose beams, and splitting towers. 

Whilst I am on bell sites, let me repeat that 
both in York and Durham the bells are too high up. 
In York are twelve bells all crowded together, instead 
of being in an upper and lower floor. In Durham— 
superb site—the lower side tower ought to have been 
used, and not the perilous height at the top of the 
middle tower. How perilous such sites are, how 
unfit for any additional strain, we see from the fact 
that Westminster middle tower cannot be built at all, 
nor can Salisbury bells be rung, for fear the undue 
oscillation should affect the central elevation. Out 
of sight out of mind! 

A word in season about bell-frames—surely a 
pardonable digression if it should tend to the salva¬ 
tion of the towers in which the bells hang. “ I have 
scarcely ever examined an ancient church tower,” 
writes Mr. Gilbert Scott, “which I have not found 
shattered by the use of a bell-frame constructed on 
the ordinary principle.” The bell-frame is usually 
attached to the inside of the tower wall, and when 
the bells are rung the tower rocks, and in time rocks 
down. Well, I would cut a space of three or four 
inches clear round on each floor, and let the bell 
scaffolding rise clean through. The bell-frame has 
nothing to do with the tower, except (when it touches 
it)—the undoing of it. 

Is there one dean or architect in the laud who will 
hear, or hearing heed? Yet a continuous and ulti¬ 
mately ineffectual drain on the cathedral funds might 
be saved, and matchless old towers would stand for 




centuries which are now daily being taken down, or 
almost worse—re-built. And all because the bell- 

frame touches the tower; 
and the local carpenter— 
this is almost universal 
—when the rafters 
loose, tightens them by 
thrusting wedges between 
the rafters and the tower 
wall. Of course the tower 
tries to shake the ffalling- 
wedge loose; the wedge 
thrusts away outwards; 
the sturdy old tower still 
resists. In comes local car¬ 
penter, “a practical man/’ 
puts in a tighter wedge; 
this time the tower bulges. 
The dean and chapter 
call in architect, who 
sees what’s up, 
rubs his 
a=- hands, re- 
- " stores, re¬ 

builds at a cost of £10,000 ! If it happens to be 
only some precious Gothic gem in a remote village, 
the matter is simpler—the bells are silenced ; then, 
as there are no funds, the tower is lowered, and 
away goes for ever the noblest bell site for fifty 
miles round! 

The rules for hanging bells are few and simple, 
and yet who regards them ? First, let your bell- 
frame, if possible, be free of your tower walls, as it is 
in Mr. Gilbert Scott’s church, Cattistock Rectory, 
Dorchester. If this is impossible, make it as much one 
with the tower as may be, that the whole may rock as 
one mass. Second, never put wedges between the 
bell-frame and the wall. Third, when there are two 
towers the bells should be distributed—the clock bells 
in one, the peal bells in the other. As far as possible, 
let the big hells hang by themselves—at all events, on 
a separate floor. You can put some of the little bells 
in the steeple if absolutely necessary, but, as a rule, 
once fairly above the adjacent chimneys, the lower 
the better are the bells. Fourth, let your bells ring 
easily ; when they won’t, the leverage is, of course, 
wrong: hence double labour, uncertain percussion, 
friction, and ruin to bell-frame. Bell-hanging is 
not the business of the local carpenter. It requires 
good mechanicians, like Messrs. Gillett and Bland, 
and it is vastly cheaper in the long-run to employ 
the right people and pay the right price. 

It is difficult to think without emotion of 
the dramatic role which large bells have played 
in history. When the king dies the bell tolls 
“ Le Roi est mort!” an hour later the bells 
ring out merrily, “Vive le Roi!” With sad 
satire they rang peal after peal as Henry VIII. 
led wife after wife to the altar, and tolled as 
impassively for the execution of those same 
unhappy ladies. They herald in all the great 
epochs of history. They rang at the birth of 
diaries Stuart, and tolled in a few years for 
his execution. Chester bells sent out a merry 
peal, alternated with one deep toll, to signal 
Nelson’s triumph and death at Trafalgar; and 
who that heard it can forget the tolling of 
St. Paul’s bell as the great Duke of Welling¬ 
ton’s coffin passed up Ludgate Hill amidst the 
silent crowd ? 

There is a large green bell in Pisa’s leaning 
tower which for centuries has borne the death 
sentence to the criminal’s ear as he passed 
across the bridge to his execution. I remem¬ 
ber looking with interest at that thin green 
battered tongue, which sufficed long ago to 
tell the awe-stricken Pisans that the wretched 
Ugolino, starved to death in a neighbouring 
dungeon, bad at length ceased to breathe. At 
the ringing of the bells in Sicily, on the third 




day of Easter, 1282, 8,000 French were massacred 
in cold blood, by John of Procida, in his desperate 
attempt to free Sicily from Charles of Anjou. The 
London bells rang merrily for the return of 
Charles II., and for the coronation of his brother, 
James II., and a few years more they lent their fatal 
and unprincipled tongues to the praises of William of 
Orange. They are indeed the voice of man’s triumph, 
vacillation, and despair ! And to tell how, when, and 
where the great city bells have been rung, 
would be to sum up in a series of dramatic 
pictures the story of each city and every 
century of Christian civilisation. 

In many Continental towns the secular 
and religious bells are kept distinct. In 
Antwerp the curfew, the carillons, and 
St. Mary’s bell belong to the town, and 
the rest to the chapter. Next 
to cannon, bells were the chief 
city guardians. He who held 
the bell held the town, for he 
alone could instantly signal his 
followers from all parts of the 
city to the great square or to 
the ramparts. The first thing 
on taking a town was to melt 
the bells and thus destroy the 
signal for revolt. A cu¬ 
rious old social use of 
bells survives in the cur¬ 
few. Of old, houses being 
made of wood, peri¬ 
odic conflagrations 
suggested to William 
the Conqueror the 
device of the “ Cou- 
vre-feu” bell, at the 
sound of which, at 
eight o’clock, all 
lights were to be 
put out. It has sur¬ 
vived to this day in the fen districts of Oxford and 
Cambridge as a guide to travellers out on the marshes, 
and is still rung every night—not without benefit to the 
weary pedestrian as he trudges home to college through 
the autumnal fog. So, too, one still may hear the bell 
of Strasburg Cathedral give out the storm-signal or 
“recall.” From the top of the tower the watchers 
could see the storm driving from the Yosges, and at the 
sound of the ominous bell the traveller through the 
once densely-wooded plain sought timely shelter or 
hurried homeward. At Strasburg, also, the “Thor,” 
or gate-bell, which used to ring in all fortified towns 
at the closing of the city gates, still rings, though 
many ramparts are now in ruins, ditches are turned 
into gardens, and drawbridges have become fixtures. 



The Strasburg gate-bell, cast in 1618, and since 
re-cast, bore the following inscription : — 

“ Dieser Thor Gloche das erstmal Scliallt 
Alv mau, 1618, Sahlf 
Bars Mg-te juhr requet mau 
Nach Doctor Luther, Jubal Jahr, 

Das Bos hindus das Gut hinein 
Zu Lanten Soli igr arbeit Seyn.” 

I remember some other lines, which have the same 

“ Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

* # * *- * *- 
Ring out the false, ring in the true.” 

What distich was ringing in Mr. Tenny¬ 
son’s ears when he wrote that ? Had he 
heard the voice of the old gate-bell at 
Strasburg ? 

Of all bells the “ Tocsin ” is 
the most awful. There is an 
ancient one in Antwerp, which, 
owing to age and infirmity, is 
never now rung; if is called 
“ Horrida,” and dates from 1316. 
Here is a “Tocsin” and “ storm- 
bell ” motto combined; it occurs 
on more than one Belgian bell:— 

“ Mynem naem is Roelant, 

Als ich clippe dan is brandt, 
Als ich myde dan is storm in 

Which, being inter¬ 
preted, may stand : 
“ My name is Roe- 
lant; when I toll, 
then it is for a fire; 
when I swing, then 
it is stormy weather 
in Flanders.” 

But bells are even 
more intimately con¬ 
nected with religious than with secular life. All 
Church history. Church doctrine, and Church dis¬ 
cipline is set to bell music. The wedding, the 
birthday, and the funeral are welded to religion by 
the church bell. In Catholic countries, at least, the 
bell is the teacher of doctrine and the guardian 
of religion. On a “Holy Ghost” bell the devotee 
is taught the constant aspiration of the Church 
militant here on earth : 

“ 0 Rex Christe veni cum pace.” 

On another, the perpetual summons to prayer— 

“Vox ego sum Vitae, 

Voco vos—orate—venite.” 

Whilst F. Hemyon, the great Belgian bell-founder 



of the sixteenth century, welds his hell to the songs 
of the stars and the voices of universal nature 
with this sweet motto— 

“ Non sunt loqueltas neque sermones, 
Audiuntur voces eorum.” 

The life of the old monies must have been com¬ 
pletely bound up with the sound of their various 


bells. The “ Signum ” woke up the 
monastery at cock-crow. The “ Squilla” 
announced the frugal meal in the 
refectory; but if some brethren were 
still missing, the cloister-bell, or “ Campanella,” 
had to he rung. The abbot’s “ cordon,” or 
hand-bell, summoned the servile brother to his 
superior; whilst the “ Petasius,” a large hand¬ 
bell, was used to ring in the brethren who were 
ploughing the fields. The “Tiniolum” sounded 
for bed. The “ Noctula,” or “ Dupla,” awoke 
the monks at intervals to watch and pray. The 
dreaded “ Corrigiumcula ” was the scourging-bell, 
and at its sound the holy men flogged them¬ 
selves or were flogged. But the hell of all others 
which awoke the keenest emotion was the little 
silver-toned “ Nota,” or choir-bell, rung at the 
consecration of the elements. When that shrill and 

irregular ringing is heard through cloister and nave, 
the monks fall prostrate and cross themselves—the 
dread miracle is being at that moment consummated; 
and only the most bigoted Protestant can withstand 
the indescribable thrill caused to this day by the 
ringing of the sacramental bell, whilst the clouds of 
incense float upwards, aud the crowd in every part of 
the church bow low in adoration of what is believed 
to be the very Presence of the Sacred Host. Our 
Protestant associations with church bells are perhaps 
less awful, but scarcely less touching and pathetic. 
We no Ion ffer ring: hells to announce the miracle of 
transubstantiation; nor do we use them, as of old, 
to drive away demons or exorcise spirits. But 
the passing-bell in a country churchyard—break¬ 
ing the stillness of the summer afternoon, and 
arresting for a moment the busy haymakers as 
they pause to listen and remember some old com¬ 
rade who will no more be seen in their ranks—is 
scarcely less suggestive and solemn. 

Bells, too, are as dear to art as to religion. 
Millet has painted the sound and sentiment of 
the Angelus into his noblest picture. With 
the backward toll of the death-bells Berlioz has 
heightened the horror of his “Sabbat.” Hugo 
embodies their goblin genius in the dwarfed and 
misshapen hero of his wild novel. Dickens lias 
but to hear and understand them to call forth the 
“ phantasmal hopes and fears ” of Trotty Veck. 
Dante’s heart grows pitiful, listening to them 
from afar: “ Che paia il giorno pianger che si 
muore.” The scholar Villon waxes earnest as he 
bids the ringers go to work, and sound “ Le gros 
Beffroy, qui n’est de verre.” Schiller sees the 
bell a-casting, and builds the sight into a great 
and moving allegory. Heine, lying in the sum¬ 
mer meadows, weaves the wayward melody of bells 
into a love-song and a love-dream. Poe, Milton, 
Baudelaire, Wordsworth, Sidney, Tennyson, Gray, 
Longfellow, Browning, all have sung them; and so 
in many a tongue has many another poet, all the 
world over. All literature, indeed, is loud with 
their generous music. 

With the season of Christmas the ringing of 
our English peals is inseparably interwoven; and 
at the midnight service now so customary on New 
Year’s Eve, who can hear untouched the striking 
of that midnight bell, which seems, as the crowd 
is kneeling within, to bear away on its wave of 
sound the hopes and fears and tumultuous pas¬ 
sions of the dead year? When its echoes have 
ceased, those kneeling crowds feel that one more 
chapter in the book of life has been written, for 
that bell has sealed the troubled past, and heralded 
in with its iron, inexorable, though trembling lips, 
the unknown future. H. R. Haweis. 



By the late Adolphe Tidemand. 

PEASANT life in Norway had 
for many years a careful 
student and painter in the 
artist whose genre picture 
we reproduce on our next 
page. Without any great 
gifts of colour or dramatic 
power he was yet able in com¬ 
position, full of sympathy with 
■ the life which he illustrated, and 
a practiser of that neat, accom¬ 
plished, and complete manner of execution 
which some of the Norwegian painters 
have in common with the Dutch, and 
which, though not dexterous in the French sense, 
is yet sufficiently scientific. There is so much of 
distinctive costume and of local colour left among- 
the people of Norway and Sweden, that the artist 
finds in those countries far more real and sincere 
subjects than he can compose out of the hackneyed 
materials of bygone Roman or Neapolitan life. In 
that simple North, at least, he will not have to paint 
the pathetic from professional models; and he will 
find the rare and valuable virtue of unconsciousness 
among people whose country has not been made a 
European painting-ground. 

Adolphe Tidemand was a member of the 
Academies of Berlin, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, 
and Stockholm, and his principal studies were at 
Diisseldorf, under Hildebrandt and Schadow. He 
aspired to something higher than genre, having 
executed some religious and historical works for a 
church in Christiania and for the castle of Oscars- 
hall, near that city—the “ Baptism of Christ " being 
among them. His most important picture is per¬ 
haps the “ Assembly of the Haugiens, " now in 
the gallery at Diisseldorf. 

Not all essays in genre are profitable or praise¬ 
worthy. Humorous, they are apt to be trifling; 
pathetic, they are often but expressions of a more or 
less spurious sentimentality. The genre -painter who 
has not tact and humanity is a lost artist. Art for 
him is but another name for aneedotage in design. 
He tells his little tale ; he makes his little point; 
his little mission is accomplished; and there is an 
end of him. In the present instance the story 
—such as it is—is told with much simplicity 
and no mean skill; it is inwrought, too, with a 
sincere and pleasing study of manners, so that in 
its way the picture may be considered a quite suc¬ 

cessful little work. The kindly northern folk whom 
Tidemand loved to paint are—as M. Du Chaillu 
has just told us—not yet over-civilised, are still so 
unsophisticated as to be able to feel deeply, and 
not to care a jot about hiding their feelings. This 
Tidemand knew; and “ The Grandfather's Blessing" 
is a proof that he could utilise his knowledge ear¬ 
nestly and well. The material he has worked up 
is of the simplest. The married daughter has come 
back for a while to her old home. Her visit is 
ended, and she is departing to her husband's home 
once more. The trunks are corded, the bundles are 
tied; everything is ready; it is the moment of 
farewell. Her mother, loth to say good-bye, stands 
wiping her eyes. Her father, bedridden and old, 
lays his hand upon his grandchild's bared head and 
asks a blessing that maybe will be his last. The 
box-bed, the great rafters, the heap of firewood, the 
open hearth, the litter of crocks and kettles, the 
pot swinging from the beam, the quaint head-gear 
and quainter attire of the two women, are details 
studied from the life, and telling of other manners 
than ours. The figures, too, are natural in them¬ 
selves, and natural in grouping and gesture. The 
prevailing sentiment is one of unaffected and tranquil 
domesticity. There are very many worse pictures 
than “ The Grandfather's Blessing." 

Of course it is not heroic art; but that in no 
way affects its position, and in no way detracts 
from its merits. The heroic does not always come 
natural to any of us; and there are many to whom 
it never comes natural at all. It is for these that 
men like Tidemand are born to paint. Tragedy 
dismays them; to them the epic is but a solemn 
and ostentatious dulness; for great passions, august 
experiences, the terrors of a tremendous fate, they 
have only bewilderment or fear. They love what 
is gentle, what is quiet, what is amiable and tender 
and engaging; and they are right to care for nothing 
in art that fails to touch them as they wish. It is 
the artist's function to appeal to the understanding 
through the emotions, and to teach us to think as 
we ought by making us feel as we ought. This 
being the case, it is certain that the influence of 
artists like beneficent in no mean degree, 
and that to be ungrateful for such art. as they have 
it in them to produce is to disregard the needs and 
pleasures of at least three-fourths of one's fellow- 
creatures, and to forget that there is a home for all 
in the many-mansioned House of Art. 


(From the Painting by Adolphe Tidemand.) 



HE earth has a way of absorbing 
things that are placed upon it, 
of drawing from them their stiff 
individuality of newness, and 
throwing over them something 
of her own antiquity. As the 
furrow smoothes and brightens 
the share, as the mist eats away 
the sharpness of the iron angles, 
so, in a larger manner, the ma¬ 
chines sent forth to conquer the 
soil are conquered by it, become a part of it, and as 
natural as the old, old scythe and reaping-hook. 
Thus already the new agriculture has grown hoar. 

The oldest of the modern implements is the 
threshing-machine, which is historic, for it was once 
the cause of rural war. There are yeomanry-men still 
living who remember how they rode about at night 
after the rioters, guided by the blazing bonfires 
kindled to burn the newfangled things. Much 
blood—of John Barleycorn—was spilt in that cam¬ 
paign ; and there is many a farmer yet hearty who 
recollects the ale-barrels being rolled up into the rick- 
yards and there broached in cans and buckets, that 
the rebels, propitiated with plentiful liquor, might 
forbear to set fire to the ricks or sack the homestead. 
Such memories read strange to the present genera¬ 
tion, proving thereby that the threshing-machine has 
already grown old. It is so accepted that the fields 
would seem to lack something if it were absent. It 
is as natural as the ricks: things grow old so soon in 
the fields. 

On the fitful autumn breeze, with brown leaves 
whirling and grey grass rustling in the hedges, 
the hum of the fly-wheel sounds afar, travelling 
through the mist which hides the hills. Sometimes 
the ricks are in the open stubble, up the Down side, 
where the wind comes in a long, strong rush, like a 
tide, carrying away the smoke from the funnel in a 
sweeping trail; while the brown canvas, stretched as a 
screen, flaps and tears, and the folk at work can scarce 
hear each other speak any more than you can by 
the side of the sea. Vast atmospheric curtains—what 
else can you call them ?—roll away, opening a view 
of the stage of hills a moment, and, closing again, 
reach from heaven to earth around. The dark sky 
thickens and lowers as if it were gathering thunder, 
as women glean wheat-ears in their laps. It is not 
thunder; it is as if the wind grew solid and hurled 
itself—as a man might throw out his clenched fist—at 
the hill. The inclined plane of the mist-clouds again 

reflects a grey light, and, as if swept up by the fierce 
gale, a beam of sunshine comes. You see it first long, 
as it is at an angle; then overhead it shortens, and 
again lengthens after it has passed, somewhat like 
the spoke of a wheel. In the second of its presence 
a red handkerchief a woman wears on the ricks stands 
out, the brass on the engine glows, the water in the 
butt gleams, men’s faces brighten, the cart-horse’s 
coat looks glossy, the straw a pleasant yellow. It is 
gone, and lights up the backs of the sheep yonder as 
it runs up the hill swifter than a hare. Swish ! The 
north wind darkens the sky, and the fly-wheel moans 
in the gloom; the wood-pigeons go a mile a minute 
on the wind, hardly usiug their wings; the brown 
woods below huddle together, rounding their shoulders 
to the blast; a great air-shadow, not mist, a shadow 
of thickness in the air looms behind a tiled roof in the 
valley. The vast profound is full of the rushing air. 

These are days of autumn ; but earlier than this, 
when the wheat that is now being threshed was ripe, 
the reaping-machine went round and round the field, 
beginning at the outside by the hedges. Red arms, not 
unlike a travelling windmill on a small scale, sweep the 
corn as it is cut and leave it spread on the ground. 
The bright red fans, the white jacket of the man 
driving, the brown and iron-grey horses, and yellow 
wheat are toned—melted together at their edges—with 
warm sunlight. The machine is lost in the corn, and 
nothing is visible but the colours, and the fact that it 
is the reaping, the time of harvest, dear to man these 
how many thousand years ! There is nothing new in 
it; it is ail old as the hills. The straw covers over the 
knives, the rims of the wheels sink into pimpernel, 
convolvulus, veronica; the dry earth powders them, 
and so all beneath is concealed. Above the sunlight 
(and once now and then the shadow of a tree) throws 
its mantle over, and, like the hand of an enchanter 
softly waving, surrounds it with a charm. So the 
cranks, and wheels, and knives, and mechanism do not 
exist—it was a machine in the workshop, but it is not 
a machine in the wheat-field. For the wheat-field you 
see is very, very old, and the air is of old time, and 
the shadow, the flowers, and the sunlight; and that 
which moves among them becomes of them. The 
solitary reaper alone in the great field goes round and 
round, the red fans striking beside him, alone with 
the sunlight, and the blue sky, and the distant hills; 
and he and his reaper are as much of the corn-field as 
the long-forgotten sickle or the reaping-hook. 

The sharp rattle of the mowing-machine disturbs 
the corncrake in the meadow. Crake! crake ! for 



many a long 1 day since the grass began to grow fast 
in April till the cowslips flowered, and white parsley 
flourished like a thicket, blue scabious came up, and 
yonder the apple-trees dropped their bloom. Crake ! 
crake! nearly day and night; but now the rattle 
begins, and the bird must take refuge in the corn. 
Like the reaper, the mowing-machine is buried under 
the swathe it cuts, and flowers fall over it—broad 
ox-eye daisies and red sorrel. Upon the hedge June 
roses bloom; blackbirds whistle in the oaks; now 
and again come the soft hollow notes of the cuckoo. 
Angles and wheels, cranks and cogs, where are they ? 
They are lost; it is not these we see, but the flowers 
and the pollen on the grass. There is an odour of 
new-made hay; there is the song of birds, and the 
trees are beautiful. 

As for the drill in spring-time, it is ancient in¬ 
deed, and ancients follow it—aged men stepping after 
over the clods, and watching it as if it were a living 
thing that the grains may fall each in its appointed 
place. Their faces, their gait, nay, the very planting of 
their heavy shoes’ stamp on the earth, are full of the 
importance of this matter. On this the year depends, 
and the harvest, and all our lives, that the sowing be 
accomplished in good order, as is meet. Therefore 
they are in earnest, and do not turn aside to gaze at 
strangers, like those do who hoe, being of no account. 
This is a serious matter, needing men of days, little 
of speech, but long of experience. So the heavy drill, 
with its hanging rows of funnels, travels across the 
field well tended, and there is not one who notes the 
deep azure of the March sky above the elms. 

Still another step, tracing the seasons backwards, 
brings in the steam-plough. When the spotted 
arum leaves unfold on the bank, before the violets 
or the first celandine, while the “pussies” hang on 
the hazel, the engines roll into the field, pressing the 
earth into barred ruts. The massive wheels leave 
their imprint, the footsteps of steam, behind them. 
By the hedges they stand, one on either side, and they 
hold the field between them with their rope of iron. 
Like the claws of some pre-historic monster, the 
shares rout up the ground; the solid ground is help¬ 
less before them ; they tear and rend it. One engine 
is under an oak, dark yet with leafless boughs, up 
through which the black smoke rises; the other over¬ 
tops a low hedge, and is in full profile. By the 
panting, and the humming, and the clanking as the 
drum unwinds, by the smoke hanging in the still air, 
by the trembling of the monster as it strains and 
tugs, by the sense of heat, and effort, and pent-up 
energy bubbling over in jets of steam that come 
through crevices somewhere, by the straightened rope 
and the jerking of the plough as it comes, you know 
how mighty is the power that thus in narrow space 
works its will upon the earth. Planted broadside. 

its four limbs—the massive wheels—hold the ground 
like a wrestler drawing to him the unwilling opponent. 
Humming, panting, trembling, with stretched but 
irresistible muscles, the iron creature conquers, and 
the plough approaches. All the field for the minute 
seems concentrated in this thing of power. There 
are acres and acres, scores of acres around, but they 
are a surface only. This is the central spot: they are 
nothing, mere matter.' This is force—Thor in another 
form. If you are near you cannot take your eyes off 
the sentient iron, the wrestler straining. But now the 
plough has come over, and the signal given reverses 
its way. The lazy monotonous clanking as the drum 
unwinds on this side, the rustling of the rope as it 
is dragged forth over the clods, the quiet rotation of 
the fly-wheel—these sounds let the excited thoughts 
down as the rotating fly-wheel works off the mad¬ 
dened steam. The combat over, you can look round. 

It is the February summer that comes, and lasts a 
week or so between the January frosts and the east 
winds that rush through the thorns. Some little 
green is even now visible along the mound where 
seed-leaves are springing up. The sun is warm, and 
the still air genial, the sky only dotted with a few 
white clouds. Wood-pigeons are busy in the elms, 
where the ivy is thick with ripe berries. There is a 
feeling of spring and of growth; in a day or two we 
shall find violets; and listen, how sweetly the larks 
are singing ! Some chase each other, and then hover 
fluttering above the hedge. The stubble, whitened 
by exposure to the weather, looks lighter in the sun¬ 
shine, and the distant view is softened by haze. A 
water-tank approaches, and the cart-horse steps in the 
pride of strength. The carter’s lad goes to look at 
the engine and to wonder at the uses of the gauge. 
All the brazen parts gleam in the bright sun, and the 
driver presses some waste against the piston; now it 
works slowly, till it shines like polished silver. The 
red glow within, as the furnace-door is opened, lights 
up the lad’s studious face beneath like sunset. A 
few brown leaves yet cling to one bough of the 
oak, and the rooks come over cawing happily in the 
unwonted warmth. The low hum and the mono¬ 
tonous clanking, the rustling of the wire rope, give a 
sense of quiet. Let us wander along the hedge, and 
look for signs of spring. This is to-day. To-morrow, 
if we come, the engines are half-hidden from afar by 
driving sleet and scattered snow-flakes fleeting aslant 
the field. Still sternly they labour in the cold and 
gloom. A third time you may find them, in Sep¬ 
tember or bright October, with acorns dropping from 
the oaks, the distant sound of the gun, and perhaps a 
pheasant looking out from the corner. If the moon 
be full and bright they work on an hour or so by her 
light, and the vast shadows of the engines are thrown 
upon the stubble. Richard Jefferies. 




Q UITE recently 
1 was in a 
little Scotch cabin, 
the mud and stone 
walls of which 
were simply white¬ 
washed. The squa re 
box-like bed-places, 
however, were all 
papered round with 
pictures from the 
Illustrated and 
Graphic, a fact 
which was ex¬ 
plained by the old 
forester’s wife, who 
said, in answer to my inquiries, “ Oh, my lady, those 
were given to us by the gentry who were shooting 
up at the lodge last year: and sure those pictures 
gave us a power of thought and talk last winter, 
when we were snowed up.” 

The connection between a rude Highland hut and 
a large well-furnished yacht may appear somewhat 
slender; but there is at least this point of resem¬ 
blance, that each is capable of artistic improvement, 
and that without the aid of art the one would 
be almost as comfortless and desolate looking as 
the other. This brief introduction brings me to the 
subject on which I have been asked to write-—-the 
artistic furnishing of a yacht, and the desirability 
of making what is essentially a vessel constructed 
for pleasure and amusement as much like a floating 
house and as little like an ordinary passenger- 
steamer as possible. 

It is hardly necessary to say that on such a 
subject no positive rules can be laid down, since 
so much must depend upon individual tastes and 
upon a variety of other circumstances. All I can 
do, therefore, is to offer a few suggestions, founded 
upon my own experience; and I can see no better 
way of doing this than by describing in some detail 
the arrangements which have been adopted on board 
our own yacht, the Sunbeam, and which have stood 
the test of several long voyages. 

In the first place, it is necessary to remark that, 
with regard to a yacht, it is quite impossible to 
separate the question of mere ornament and decora¬ 
tion from that of practical utility. The matter 
would be greatly simplified if one had to deal with 
a vessel intended always to remain within the 
friendly shelter of the Isle of Wight; but a yacht 

such as I have in view must be prepared to encounter 
much rough weather and many changes of climate, 
and all her interior fittings and arrangements 
must be made accordingly. On a yacht, more than 
anywhere else, it is absolutely necessary that every¬ 
thing, however trifling, should be good of its kind. 
There must be no sham and no shoddy, no flimsy 
false pretences, or the first wholesome breeze—to say 
nothing of a gale—will blow them all to pieces, or 
at least make them share the fate of the fringes and 
furbelows in which ladies sometimes think proper to 
go to sea, instead of attiring themselves in a plain 
serge or tweed costume, with a sensible firm hat. 
The space available on board even the largest yacht 
is, after all, so small, compared with that of an 
ordinary house, that the cost of material is a pro¬ 
portionately less important consideration, whether it 
be paper or cretonne, felt or stout baize, or even 
Utrecht velvet. For the latter the baize and felt 
are excellent substitutes, producing almost as good 
an effect, and wearing equally well. In fact, it is 
not the price of the materials, but the cost of labour 
and workmanship which forms a serious item of 
expenditure. The special character of the work, 
executed as it must of necessity be within a very 
limited space, makes it, as a rule, so costly that 
one quite dreads the appearance of an artificer or 
mechanic of any sort on board. Once fairly started 
as regards substantial, the lighter decoration of the 
cabins—with pictures, curios, ornaments, lace, and 
flowers—can be easily accomplished with a hammer 
and a few tin-tacks and screws, and the occasional 
aid of the ship’s carpenter. 

We cannot now, I think, do better than proceed 
to make a complete and systematic inspection of 
the Sunbeam, with a view of noting whatever 
may appear of general interest and value, mor 3 
particularly in reference to the special points with 
which this article is supposed to deal. Commencing, 
therefore, with the deck-house, in the forward part 
of the vessel, we find ourselves in the chart-room at 
the head of the saloon-staircase. It was originally 
a double staircase, but half has been sacrificed in 
order to secure better ventilation for the galley. 
At the top of the stairs, on the left-hand side of 
the chart-room, you see the armoury, or rather 
arm-rack, to cover which, in wet or rough weather, 
a canvas curtain is provided. Close by are hooks 
and pegs for coats and hats, which are never allowed 
in the deck-house, the occasional introduction of 
dripping garments into a sitting-room not beintr 


1 Gi¬ 
ft mnil conducive to comfort or to the improvement 
of the furniture. Here also are kept telescopes and 
glasses, suspended ready for immediate use above 
the chart-table, which is provided with a strong 
reflecting light for night-work. When not in use 
this table folds back, and an ottoman with three 
seats, beneath which are snugly stowed the sextants, 
becomes available. On the wall behind, at the head 
of the stairs, there is room for three small book¬ 
shelves. The companion and staircase are also good 
places in which to 
hang framed cards 
of ship’s numbers 
and signal-flags, or 
anything else you 
may wish to refer 
to quickly from the 
deck. Part of the 
staircase is panelled, 
while the com¬ 
panion is lined with 
blue Utrecht velvet, 
a material which 
has not the cha¬ 
racter of being very 
durable, though in 
our case it has lasted 
re markably well, and 
seen much wear and 
tear, since it was 
first put up in 1874. 

The deck-house itself, the interior of which is 
shown in our illustration, is a comfortable sitting- 
room by day and a little drawing-room by night. 
After dark it is lighted by shaded candles fixed on 
arms in movable brackets, which are not ornamental, 
and can be stowed away in a drawer during the 
day, when they are not required. Here at least 
four people can lie down, or a larger number can 
sit and read or write or work in comfort—a 
great desideratum in a cabin where many a long 
evening has to be spent during the winter months 
in the South. In a heavy gale, with the wind 
howling through the rigging, and the sea breaking 
over the vessel, the sudden contrast on coming in 
here to warmth, comfort, and beauty from the cold 
wet deck, is very striking. 

It is scarcely necessary to remark that in a cabin 
of this description, containing a large number of 
ornaments and knick-knacks and small articles, such 
as clocks, inkstands, and candlesticks, everything, 
however trifling, must be secured by means of screws 
or invisible wires, or must be inserted in a velvet 
block and thus fastened to the table or mantelpiece 
or sideboard on which it stands. With these pre¬ 
cautions, even in the roughest weather nothing can 

be overturned unless some fastening gives way. I 
remember very well paying a visit to one of the 
prettiest yachts afloat, as she lay in harbour, each of 
her cabins looking like a little boudoir; and I have 
also a lively recollection of going for a sail in the 
same yacht a few days later, when all looked bare 
and wretched, when there was not a chair to sit down 
upon, and when the pretty sofas were covered with 
ornaments hastily removed from the shelves and side¬ 
boards and propped up behind sofa-cushions, which 

were continually 
falling down and 
allowing the vases 
to upset, strewing 
the ground with 

flowers and soak¬ 

ing the carpet with 
water. The stores 

meanwhile broke 
loose from the 
lockers, and the 
owner’s clothes and 
other articles tum¬ 
bled out of the 
drawers, which were 
not fitted with 

suitable fastenings. 
Now in the writing- 
table shown in our 
picture—also situ¬ 
ated in the deck¬ 

house—every drawer shuts with a spring, and cannot 
well be left open, except through gross carelessness. 
The same remark applies to other drawers and cup¬ 
boards on board the yacht. 

We now descend the staircase already described, 
and enter the saloon, which is the largest cabin in 
the yacht, the looking-glasses with which it is fitted 
increasing its apparent size. The plants arranged 
at the foot of the main-mast, and the ivy trained 
round it and along the base of some of the panels, 
grow from double tin boxes or troughs, an arrange¬ 
ment which prevents the possibility of the roots 
getting sodden, and allows of the inner box being 
easily removed when the contents require watering. 
So well does this plan answer, that many of the same 
plants have been on board year after year. The out¬ 
side of the boxes is hidden by gilt wickerwork, which 
produces the effect of plants growing out of a basket. 

The walls of the saloon are covered with tapestry- 
cretonne, now more than five years old, and yet not 
much the worse for wear, after many long voyages 
and very considerable changes of temperature. The 
carpet is a thick Axminster, of a small, somewhat 
confused, Persian pattern; this material we have 
found from experience to be the best, as affording a 




firm hold for the feet in bad weather, and showing 
stains less readily than anything else. The pictures, 
with the exception of a few water-colours brought 
from my husband's rooms at Oxford and from my 
own nursery at home, are mostly sketches of various 
places we have visited, made on the spot by friends. 
They are all carefully screwed to the wall with fiat 
plates, so that it is impossible for them to be acci¬ 
dentally moved. The various articles on the ceiling, 
which are mostly curiosities brought from the islands 
of the Pacific and elsewhere, are suspended by very 
short strings attached to hooks. However much, 
therefore, the vessel may be rolling, they do not 
sway about unpleasantly. If every addition to one's 
collection is hung up, or has a place found for it at 
once, much packing-up and many a breakage will be 

and possibly divert your mind from the troubles of 
the moment. 

I may, perhaps, here remark that it is impossible, 
in my opinion, to insist too strongly on the supe¬ 
riority of papered or cretonne-covered walls, hung 
with pictures, over panels of any kind, of which the 
eye soon becomes weary, however handsome or elabo¬ 
rate they may be, and in which it is impossible to 
make any change. A few nice water-colour drawings 
or prints, or even chromo-lithographs and photo¬ 
graphs, do not cost so much as good wood-panelling, 
and I think every one will agree that they must be 
more interesting to look upon during a long or even 
a short voyage. 

The round table and the large lamp shown in 
the picture both work on gimbals, and therefore move 


readily in any direction, according to the motion of 
the vessel. The sideboard is provided with a rail, 
to prevent plates, dishes, and glasses from being 
thrown off by a sudden lurch or an unusually heavy 
roll. Through the half lookiim-odass in the corner 
—or, more strictly speaking, from behind it—the 
dinner is handed in from the kitchen. Thus, even 
on the roughest day your food almost always reaches 
you in safety. 

avoided, while advantage may be taken of a wet or 
idle day to make any re-arrangement that may be 
desirable. Thus, as months and years roll on, your 
walls and ceilings and shelves become a record, if not 
of your past life, of many a delightful voyage and 
pleasant incident; so that, if lying in your berth 
or on a sofa, weary or unwell, you raise your eyes, 
you may feel sure that they will rest on some object 
which will awaken agreeable thoughts and memories, 




Four of the arm-chairs are screwed firmly to the 
floor, so that in heavy weather the occupants are 
safe, while four, or even eight, ordinary chairs can 
he lashed securely between them. The chairs and 
sofas in the saloon are covered with Utrecht velvet, 
which looks and weal’s well, while what is known 
as its otherwise objectionable tendency to “cling” 
is of great advantage on a rough day. This is, of 
course, a strictly practical consideration. From an 
artistic point of view it may be remarked that the 
material makes a good background for pictures, 
objects of art, or curios. 

The ports by which the saloon is lighted are 
fitted with looking-glass sides. With a little orna- 
mentation in the shape of real coarse lace—muslin is 
of no use, for it gets untidy in a day, or almost in 
an hour—brightened up by a few bows, they form 
a pretty frame for the glimpses of scenery, or of 
shipping, presented to the view as the vessel glides 
through the water. 

Each port is provided with a strong iron shutter, 
which can be screwed down in case of need. Why 
these shutters should have received the unpleasant 
and somewhat ominous name of “dead-lights” I 
have never been able to discover. It is certain that 
the terrors of many an anxious, sleepless night have 
been greatly increased, if not actually originated, 
by the announcement made by the stewards to the 
passengers that “ the captain has given orders for 
the dead-lights to be shipped.” 

I shall, I fear, be guilty of a further digression 

from the point of artistic decoration to that 
of practical utility if I attempt to describe the 
kitchen, or rather galley, which is lined with 
pitched pine, has a tiled floor, and is provided 
with a stove combining the maximum of heat 
for cooking with the minimum of external 
radiation. All the pots and pans are carefully 
secured, so that there is no chance of their 
rolling about—a remark which also ' applies 
to the things in the pantry, where cups are 
hung on hooks, glasses are slid into grooves, 
plates are laid on recessed shelves, fixed at 
an angle which prevents their contents tilting 
out, and arranged so methodically as to present 
a certain beauty of their own, on a back¬ 
ground of polished pitched pine, relieved by 
dark teak fittings. The latter materials are 
also used for the bulkheads of the officers’ 
and servants’ cabins, and on the staircase 
leading upwards to the deck-house, which I 
have already described. 

A long narrow passage, leading from the 
saloon to the engine-room, and to all portions 
of the vessel further aft, does not present 
a fitting field for decorative art to display 
itself. The panels are of polished mahogany, with 
plenty of hooks on which to hang things to dry, 
and shelves overhead for gun-cases, cigars, &c. The 
engine-room is panelled in the same way, all the 
tools being arranged neatly along the walls, while 
the brass and steel work of the engine itself, shining 
like silver and gold, gives an air of brightness and 
cheerfulness to the scene. 

Beyond the engine-room, but of course separated 
from it by a door, is a berth which really forms part 
of the passage to which I have referred. This berth 
makes a pretty sitting-room by day and a sleeping- 
berth by night, a comfortable bed being converted at 
the proper time into an elegant little sofa. The 
writing-table serves as a dressing-table on the 
removal of the top or lid, while all the washing 
and toilet requisites are hidden by covers that roll 
back on themselves without occupying an unnecessary 
amount of room. The walls are covered with chintz, 
and hung with photographs, Arundel Society’s pub¬ 
lications, &c. One corner is occupied by quite a 
respectable-sized wardrobe, which, being covered 
with a sheet of looking-glass, has the effect of 
making the cabin seem far larger than it is. Under 
the sofa-bed are two large drawers; under the knee- 
hole writing-table are many smaller drawers; and 
beneath the washstand are two capacious cupboards; 
so that there is more room for stowing away clothes 
than in most ordinary bedrooms. 

A still smaller berth, adjoining the one just 
described, can be made pretty and serviceable during 



the day by shutting the washstand under the bed, 
and by opening out a table made to fold against the 
wall. Some book-shelves, a few flowers in fixed vases, 
and one or two bright chromo-lithographs make such 
a cabin as this quite a comfortable little study, and 
the same remark applies, of course, to the other berths 

The children's nursery is in reality one large 
cabin, but to draw its curtains is to convert it into 
two large berths—a dressing-room, and a little 
sitting-room near the fire. 

A bath-room, lined with orange-coloured Ame¬ 
rican cloth, and provided with an extra yellow glass 
to fit over the ordinary scuttle, makes an excellent 
dark-room for developing photographs. A tank for 
distilled water and a small sink with india-rubber 
tubing are easily managed, so that no mess need be 
made even when the yacht is rolling slightly. In 
the odd corners shelves with holes are fitted for the 
bottles of chemicals, while in yet another corner is 
the medicine-chest, the contents of which can be 
seen at a glance. 

The state-room, or principal sleeping cabin, pre¬ 
sents no special features, except that by 
a judicious arrangement of looking-glasses 
it is made to appear nearly double its real 
size, while the doors are entirely concealed. 

Japanese tea-trays, cut up and fitted to¬ 
gether in the form of a cabinet and ward¬ 
robe, make a picturesque and solid piece of 
furniture, the wings containing drawers, 
and the centre forming a convenient and 
serviceable escritoire, with pigeon-holes at 
the back. The walls of the state-room are 
covered, like those of the smaller berths, 
with tapestry-cretonne, and are hung with 
photographs and small pictures. A few 
curios and knick-knacks, a book-shelf or 
two, a little lace here and there, and, when¬ 
ever possible, an abundance of flowers, dis¬ 
tributed in small vases and pots, complete 
the decoration. 

Perhaps I might before this have men¬ 
tioned that flowers are in my opinion an 
absolutely essential feature in the success¬ 
ful adornment of any room or cabin, large 
or small, ashore or afloat. I always use 
them as freely as I can, and during an 
ordinary voyage, which includes pretty 
frequent visits to various ports, the opportunities 
of obtaining fresh supplies are ample. It is really 
wonderful what an improvement can be made by 
the introduction of a few wild flowers, gathered 
from the field and the hedgerows, even in the 
barest and dingiest of rooms. They give an air 
of habitability, cheerfulness, and refinement, and 

an appearance of beauty and natural art, which 
nothing else can impart. “ The meanest flower that 
blows ” is always lovely, and has perhaps more 
charm at sea than anywhere else. With a little 
trouble and ingenuity plants of almost any kind 
may be kept alive in pots for weeks and months. 
On the trackless ocean, far from the land and its 
delightful products, the interest one takes in one's 
flowers and plants is redoubled, and the tending of 
them becomes a most pleasing occupation. 

On the sides of the after-companion are hung a 
couple of telescopes and a few other articles in con¬ 
stant requirement at sea, while neatly-arranged nets 
on either hand contain such things as umbrellas, 
lawn-tennis rackets, &c., which are thus ready in 
case of a sudden visit to the shore. One of the 
points which cannot be too strongly insisted upon 
on board a yacht, or indeed any other vessel, where 
the judicious economy of space is of the utmost im- 
portauee, is that everything should have a place, and 
that after it has been used it should at once be 
returned to its place. Disorder, however picturesque 
its effects may occasionally be, is not to be tolerated 

on board ship. This fact is universally recognised 
by those who are responsible for the navigation of 
the vessel, and for the condition of her decks, spars, 
and risrffing. For the sake of their own conveni- 

oo o . 

ence and comfort, at least, it must be recognised 
equally by all who go to sea, whether for pleasure 
or for business. 




What can be a more beautiful sight than the 
deck of a neatly-ordered yacht, with its snowy planks, 
its shining brass-work, varnished teak fittings and 
covering-boards, its white deck-house and bulwarks, 
slightly touched with gilding, and its tightly-spread 
striped awning, under which are placed a few com¬ 
fortable seats, rugs, and carpets ? Nowhere can 

you have a prettier drawing-room than beneath 
such an awning, especially at night, with a riding- 
light and boats' lanterns suspended from the boom, 
and a few Moorish lamps hanging from the sides. 
The air is still. The yacht rocks lazily, and upon 
all things falls the magic hush of a starlit night 
a t sea - Annie Brassey. 


AMONG the 
AJL many fron¬ 
tier strongholds 
around which 
surged the tide 
of border war¬ 
fare, with its 
endless feuds 
and incessant 
forays, there is 
none more an¬ 
cient or, in its 
way, more re¬ 
markable than 
Ford. Its posi¬ 
tion at the foot 
of the Cheviots, 
and within a 
few miles of the 
Tweed, consti¬ 
tuted it a natural outpost against invasion, a strong 
point which one side was as anxious to capture and 
destroy as the other was to retake and rebuild. Ford 
was thus a fortress in the reign of Edward I., held by 
a certain Odonel de Ford, whose daughter and heiress 
carried the estate and castle to her husband, Sir 
William Heron. The Herons were a Northumbrian 
family of some repute and power, one of them, also 
a Sir William, having been for many years, as it is 
recorded, Governor of Bamborough Castle, of Picker¬ 
ing, and Scarboro’, as well as Sheriff of Northum¬ 
berland and Lord Warden of the forests north of 
Trent. This knight strengthened and added to 
Ford in the year 1287, which, fifty years later, was 
crenellated by royal licence, and became officially a 
castle and place of arms. Fifty more, and an incur¬ 
sion of Scots, under the Earls of Fife, Mar, and 
Douglas, ravaged the country round as far as New¬ 
castle, and dismantled all the fortresses, including 
those of Wark, Cornhill, and Ford. The chroniclers 
record that they were demolished, but Ford itself must 
have been spared, seeing that portions of the castle 
erected by the Sir William Heron above mentioned 



remain intact to this day. The castle was, no 
doubt, speedily re-constructed, although no mention 
is made of the fact. But a hundred years later we 
hear of it in the combats which preceded Flodden. 
Ford occupies a certain prominence in regard to 
that disastrous battle, which was fought almost 
under the windows of the castle. In spite of the 
many terrible portents and warnings which may 
probably be attributed to the efforts of people who 
would have diverted him from his purpose, King 
James of Scotland had every reason to hope for suc¬ 
cess in that great invasion of England in 1513 
which terminated in his defeat and death. He set 
out from Edinburgh on the 22nd of August at the 
head of a magnificent army, the flower of Scotland's 
chivalry, well armed, well equipped, and furnished 
with a finer train of artillery than ever Scottish 
general had owned. He had no decided plan of 
operations, but crossed the frontier in a desultory 
wav, laying siege to the castles of Norham and 
of Wark, which presently fell into his hands and 
were razed to the ground. He next took Ford, hut 
spared it for the sake of its beautiful chatelaine 
Lady Heron, who resided in it at the time—a gay 
“ grass-widow,” her husband being a prisoner in 
Scotland. James, so runs the story, which is well 
told in “Marmion,” fell an easy and a willing prey 
to Lady Heron's blandishments. She appears to 
have been as false to her Boyal swain as to her 
absent husband. While James lingered and dallied 
at Ford, spell-bound, Lady Heron was in cor¬ 
respondence with the English. Earl Surrey, who 
had been constituted Lieutenant-General of the 
north during Henry VIII.’s absence in France, was 
not slow to avail himself of the respite vouchsafed 
by James's delay at Ford. Promptly gathering his 
forces together, and taking with him the sacred 
banner of St. Cuthbert from Durham Cathedral, he 
marched northward, and approached the border by 
the 4th of September, on which day he dispatched 
a challenge to the Scotch to meet him in battle on 
the following Friday. By this time James, alive to 
his danger, had left Ford, but not before he had 



ravaged that stronghold “ by falling of the timbers 
thereof, whereby several of his men were injured/’ 
and had taken up a strong position at Flodden. 
His ground was “ skilfully chosen, inaccessible on 
both flanks, and defended in front by the river 
Till.” Meanwhile Surrey advancing, and finding 
James so strongly posted, invited the King to come 
down and fight him in the open field, declaring 
that the Scottish monarch acted ungallantly in thus 
putting himself “ into a ground more like a for¬ 
tress or a camp than any indifferent field of battle.” 
The argument, which reads oddly to students of 
war, a science the very essence of which is to take 

so far continued inactive, dismounted and led his 
men down the slope. But the English archers, who 
had meanwhile reinforced their centre, poured in 
such a murderous hail of clothyard shafts that the 
King’s advancing columns charged forward regard¬ 
less of formation, then, finding the English stood 
firm, hesitated, wavered, and were lost. This was 
the turning-point of the day. The King was now 
sore beset on flank, front, and rear; Lennox and 
Argyll were slain; help was denied by Huntley 
and Home, who had done their share, they said; 
and the King, surrounded by a small and devoted 
band, fought hand to hand till all were slain. 


one’s enemy at a disadvantage, was at first dis¬ 
regarded by James, who permitted the English to 
carry out several flanking and other compromising 
movements under his eye, and well within striking 
distance. When at length Surrey had manoeuvred 
his whole army towards Branxton Hill, a point inter¬ 
cepting James’s communications with Scotland, the 
King suddenly threw away his advantages of position 
and moved down from Flodden to attack. James 
himself, although entreated to retire, took an active 
part in the fierce fight which followed. The armies 
met while both were on the move ; the first shock 
was between the wild Highlanders of Huntley and 
Home and the English right, which wavered, and 
would have been routed but for the support of 
Dacre’s Horse. The main body of the English was 
engaged by Lennox and Argyll and the Scottish 
right. Victory seemed to lean to the Scots, when 
King James, who commanded the centre, and had 

Ford is still full of memories of the great battle¬ 
field which it faces. The clump of firs which crowns 
the highest eminence, known still as the King’s 
Chair, is visible from the castle windows, and the 
castle’s present occupant has cut a ride through 
the woods, straight up the famous lull. Inside the 
building the king’s bedchamber is yet shown. It is 
reached by a secret door, which is hidden commonly 
by a heavy book-ease, in the corner of the passage- 
chamber whence it leads. The furniture of the 
king’s room, which looks across the trees to Flodden 
Field by a large window somewhat more modern, is 
antique and peculiar. The bed, with its tapestry 
hangings and carved woodwork, is also antique, and 
everything else is in keeping—quaint chairs, carved 
wardrobes, more tapestry of curious design upon the 
walls. This bedroom occupies the northernmost 
tower; a part of the ancient building, which still 
preserves externally the stern, grim character of 



the border fortress. Deep down in its foundations 
is yet another reminiscence of the troublous life of 
those past days. The crypt or dungeon of the castle 
is in the base of this tower. You descend to it by 
a trap-door situated near the morning-room, in the 
angle of the tower; and by the light of a candle, 
which is borne aloft, may dimly discern the gloomy 
features of this northern oubliette, in which, doubt¬ 
less, many a Scottish captive languished in despair. 

But gloom and misery have 
long been banished from Ford. 

For a time, no doubt, after 
Flodden, it continued still to be 
concerned in border warfare. 

It is recorded that in 1519 
the castle was again besieged 
by the Scots, who had a bat¬ 
tering train of four pieces, and 
succeeded in demolishing a 
great part of the fortifications, 
although the tower—still the 
northern, no doubt — was 
stoutly defended and never 
fell. It was held by the then 
owner of Ford, one Thomas 
Carr, who had acquired the 
estate and castle by marriage 
with the granddaughter and 
heiress of Sir William Heron. 

As the Carrs acquired the 
lands of Ford, so also these 
passed from them. Thomas 
Carr bequeathed them to a 
daughter who married Francis 
Blake. Blake’s daughter, again, 
married Edward Delaval, one 
of that noted and most ancient 
family, whose ancestor came 
over with the Norman Con¬ 
queror and was nearly related 
toWilliam. The Delavals were, 
in every way, a remarkable 
race. In the early troublous 
times they took a prominent part in all the great 
movements in the kingdom. Among the twenty- 
five barons appointed to obtain the Pope’s sanction 
to Magna Charta was a Delaval. Delavals were 
engaged on either side in all the great intestinal 
and foreign wars. Coming nearer our own day, Sir 
George Delaval was a rear-admiral in the reign of 
William III., and actively engaged in the naval 
victories of that epoch. It was then that the 
Delavals became celebrated socially for an exuberant 
gaiety and an almost reckless profuseness of living, 
which gained for them a peculiar character all 
through the land. They were rich, and the world 

prospered with them. Sir Ralph Delaval had so 
notably improved the little port of Seaton Delaval, 
in the immediate neighbourhood of the family pro¬ 
perty, that Charles II. made him its collector and 
surveyor, with other rights and privileges. Under 
the fostering and enlightened care of the lords of 
the manor, the export trade of Seaton Delaval in 
coal and mineral products rapidly developed, and the 
Delavals deservedly grew in wealth and substantial 
prosperity. Their vast reve¬ 
nues were right royally ex¬ 
pended in dispensing a liberal, 
although often an eccentric 
hospitality. The peculiar bias 
of the family was towards 
practical jokes, and many are 
the stories preserved of the 
tricks perpetrated at Seaton 
Delaval, the princely edifice 
which was one of Vanbrugh’s 
most splendid constructions 
in this country. The house 
was constantly crowded by a 
succession of guests, and all 
shared in or were made vic¬ 
tims of the fun. Now the 
bed of some unsuspecting 
visitor was lowered through 
a trap-door into an icy-cold 
bath ; now the partitions be¬ 
tween the various rooms were 
suddenly drawn up, and their 
occupants ludicrously exposed. 
Disguises and masks were as¬ 
sumed for purposes of mysti¬ 
fication. Wagers to perform 
the most extraordinary feats 
were freely offered and taken. 
On one occasion, a brother of 
the Lord Delaval of the time 
betted that he would walk, 
blindfolded, straight from the 
garden to the house, but took 
the precaution to lay down a silken thread as a 
guide. A mischievous boy, detecting the device, 
changed the direction of the thread, and made it 
lead to a pond in the lawn. Mr. Delaval walked on 
all unconscious, and was presently nearly drowned. 
Amateur theatricals were a favourite amusement at 
Seaton Delaval. The family was, indeed, so devoted 
to the histrionic art that “ Othello ” was, on one 
occasion, performed in London, at Garrick’s Theatre, 
Delavals playing every part in the caste. Again, 
the Delavals gave the “Fair Penitent” at the 
theatre in Petty France, the Duke of York playing 
the part of Lothario, and it was repeated later on at 




Seaton Delaval. The moving spirit in these thea¬ 
trical diversions was a certain Sir Francis Delaval, 
the bosom friend of Foote the actor. These two, 
among other wild freaks, started as fortune-tellers, 
their object being to secure a rich heiress for Sir 
Francis, and in this they were perfectly successful. 

Ford Castle was the shooting lodge of the Dela- 
vals, and Sir John Hussey Delaval, in 1761, thought 
fit to re-construct and modernise it after the some¬ 
what questionable taste of the time. His architect 
could not quite ruin its ancient character, although 
his efforts were so far successful that the place has 
been stigmatised as a piece of gingerbread Gothic. 

Lord Stuart de Rothsay, who is its present occupier. 
Lord Waterford was killed by a fall in the hunting 
field in 1859. His reputation as a light-hearted, 
frolicsome young man, exhibiting traits which were 
no doubt transmitted to him with his Delaval blood, 
belongs more especially to a past generation, but 
it is hardly forgotten in this. What is less well re¬ 
membered, because the good that is in men is often 
obscured by more prominent, but less praiseworthy 
traits, is that he was a true type of the old noblesse 
—a warm-hearted, open-handed gentleman, easy of 
access, full of courtly friendliness and overflowing 
good-humour, who was loved and respected by all 


He was the last almost of his race. Several children 
were born to him, and he had many brothers, one 
of whom, Edward, succeeded to the estate. But 
he was the last male owner of Ford. After him 
it passed through the female side to the wife of 
the second Marquis of Waterford, who inherited 
it from her mother, Lady Tyrconnel, the last 
surviving daughter of the above-mentioned Lord 
Delaval. Lady Tyrconnel was a gay beauty of 
the dissipated Court of Charles II., a lady of 
extraordinary loveliness, who, with other charms, 
owned such richly-luxuriant hair that it fell as far 
as her saddle when she rode on horseback. Hence¬ 
forth Ford has been part of the property of the 
Beresfords, and used as a dower house by that noble 
family. It was settled by Henry, third Marquis 
of Waterford, upon his wife Louisa, daughter of 

who knew him well. A fitting tribute to his 
worth is the fountain with lofty granite pillar, 
surmounted by an angel, which stands in the 
centre of the village of Ford. It was erected in 
loving memory by Louisa, Marchioness of Water¬ 
ford, and is an admirable work of art. Ford is 
now essentially an artistic house. Lady Water- 
foixPs talents as a painter are well known, and 
her works have often found good places in the 
public exhibitions. Every part of Ford, inside 
and out, testifies to her artistic tastes. Under 
the careful and highly-intelligent supervision of the 
Marchioness herself, the castle has been gradually 
restored externally to its old mediaeval lines. Tender 
respect has been shown to all the ancient parts; 
the more modern alterations have by this time been 
toned down by abundant ivy, and look nearly as old 



hall are the most remarkable portraits, among 
them the Duchess of Cumberland, by Rey¬ 
nolds, and portraits of various Delavals by 
various hands. The drawing - room is a 
richly-decorated, beautifully-furnished room, 
with a stucco ceiling and a frieze copied 
from Winton Castle, and many objects of 
art collected by Lady Waterford. A charm¬ 
ing crayon portrait of the Marchioness here 
has a peculiar interest, because the frame 
is surrounded with a wide plait of beautiful 
hair, which has its history. The boudoir 
is upstairs, and has a wide view to the front, 
and is a well-lighted apartment, half busi¬ 
ness room, half studio. It is here that 
Lady Waterford works ; here are portfolios 
full of finished drawings; here are her 
sketches and designs for decoration or for 
frescoes, such as those which adorn the 
school-houses of Ford village, and which 
are based on Scriptural incidents in which 
children played a prominent part. In this 
boudoir are other evidences of habits prac- 



as the rest. The interior is full of treasures, 
family portraits, rare prints, good faience, many 
mirrors, old furniture, and rich wood-carving. 

The morning-room is a delightful green 
chamber with two aspects: one across the court¬ 
yard, with its stately peacocks, towards the en¬ 
trance gates; the other looking past the quaint 
battlements towards the Cheviots. Near the 
grandly-decorated fireplace is an arm-chair. Lady 
Waterford’s favourite seat in the evening, when 
with facile pencil she fills sketch-book after 
sketch-book with artistic fancies, idealised types 
of beauty, scraps of well-remembered landscape, 
put in with vigorous hand and broad, strong 
effect. From the morning-room a long gallery 
or spacious central hall leads to the principal 
drawing*-room. This hall is used as a dining- 
room when the guests are too numerous for 
the more cosy room which overlooks the wooded 
glades at the back of the castle. In the central 



tical and business-like as well as artistic, in the 
large library table, of French workmanship, which 
belonged to Lady Waterford’s father, Lord Stuart de 
Rothsay, when he was ambassador in Paris. This 
table is covered with bills neatly docketed, and 
papers and documents relating to the estate. For 
Lady Waterford is a landed proprietor whose care 
extends to tenants and soil no less than to this 
fine old feudal building, of which she is so fitting a 
chatelaine. Perhaps, indeed, Art would have been 
a gainer had these claims of her position not 
demanded so much of Lady Waterford’s attention. 
Many who have known her work as an artist must 
have regretted that we have not had more fruits 
of her undoubted artistic capacity. She has won 
much fame as a painter, it is true; but she has not 
won so much as she might have attained. Lady 
Waterford’s gifts are in many 
ways remarkable. She is a bom 
colourist, for instance; she has 
the sense, the feeling, the pas¬ 
sion of colour in a degree and 
to an extent that can only be 
paralleled in the endowment of 
the highest among her contem¬ 
poraries. So, too, she has a full 
measure of the master-quality 
of imagination, and her work, 
which is always lofty in aim, 
is found unfailingly to abound in 
noble meanings and beautiful in¬ 
tentions. There can be no question 
that she might have done very 
brilliantly indeed. 

And with this we take our 
leave of Ford. It is a noble old 
house, with a place of its own in 
Border lore and a peculiar page 
in the story of England. It is a 
far cry indeed, from Odonel de Ford and 
the wars of the wight Wallace to Louisa of 
Waterford and the Grosvenor Gallery; but 
to look on Ford Castle is to look on a 
structure that was old when the Hammer 
of’the Scots was born, and that has in it 
the life of a hundred art-galleries yet. The 
air about it is populous with memories and 
associations; its encrustations are legendary; 
it imparts a something of its hoar and 
vigorous antiquity to all things that fall 
within the circle of its influence, so that 
the very ivy on its towers, of yesterday 
though it be, seems to climb and flourish 
upward from roots struck deep in an im¬ 
memorial past. Its walls have echoed back 
the tramp of Longshanks’ men-at-arms, and 

been sorrowful with rumours of the Bruce and 
Bannockburn. It has stood siege and dismantle¬ 
ment at the hands of reiving Scotsmen; and it 
has looked upon the rout of Flodden, the mortal 
wound of the Scottish Lion, the heroic calamity of 
the Scottish people. It has known of Dacres and 
Howards, of Beresfords and Homes, of Carrs and 
Douglases and Scotts and Delavals; it has heard 
talk of Kinmont Will, and Johnnie Armstrong, 
and a hundred tall rascals beside; it has a part in 
the light loves and gallant lives of the brilliant 
Heron and the enchanting Tyrconnel, and through 
them of Pitscottie and David Lindsay, and Gram- 
mont and Rochester and Dorset. It tells us of 
graceless Charles and sober William, of the “ tea¬ 
cup times ” of Anne, and of the October ale and 
Tantivy politics, the mumming and play-acting and 
fooling of the Georges. It is one 
of Time’s oldest haunts; and it 
is a place where one may muse at 
will on the mortal quality of human 
life and the everlastingness of mu¬ 
tability. Arthur Griffiths. 




T was a very natural 

tlii n £ 2 “ 


after spending- £800,000 in the 
erection of a superb town-hall, 
the Corporation of Manchester 
should resolve to make pro¬ 
vision for mural decoration 
that should illustrate the entire 
history of their city. The way 
in which such decoration has 
undertaken and put under weight 
remain as a lasting testimony to 
the judgment and foresight of the city 
council. Half the panels of the great hall, 
twelve in number, have been placed in the 
hands of Mr. Ford Madox Brown, and the 
result promises to be a series of frescoes of 
the utmost value. The three finished paint¬ 
ings and the two cartoons which Mr. Brown 
has already executed, form pictorial dramas very 
vigorously conceived and excellently realised. 

Each panel is rather more than ten feet long, by 
somewhat less than five feet high. The process 
known as “ spirit fresco ” (of Mr. Gambier Parry’s 
invention) is the one employed, and Mr. Brown says 
that to the facilities for working the colours and 
executing different textures by this process there seem 
practically no limits. Every excellence that is at¬ 
tainable in oil or water-colour or fresco is attainable 
in spirit fresco—depth of tone and brilliancy in the 
lights, with the utmost transparency in the shadows, 
and all varieties of glazing, scumbling, re-touching, 
and stippling. The only drawback Mr. Brown has 
experienced in this mode of painting is said to arise 
from the tendency of several of the colours to dry in 
different degrees of glossiness; but he has adopted 
the plan of touching the opaque parts with a wax 
varnish in order to secure evenness of surface. The 
spaces designed for the pictures were in the first case 
filled by the builders with a compound of lime and 
marble dust, fine and hard like ivory, but the faces 
had to be cut down with gritstone and heated with 
a gas apparatus, so as to increase the absorbency of 
the stucco. 

The first of the panels embodies a representa¬ 
tion of the foundation of Manchester. A centre 
for population did exist prior to the period of the 
picture, a.d. 60, and it was known by the British 
name Mancenion, but nothing worthy to be called 
a town existed before the Roman Mancunium. 
Agricola was Governor of Britain at this date, 
and here he is depicted as building a fort. The 

composition is of a simpler scheme than is usually 
employed by Mr. Madox Brown, but it nowhere fails 
of invention and interest. A centurion holds before 
his chief a parchment plan of the camp that is being 
fortified; a Dragonifer flaunts the silken wind¬ 
blown Dragon standard; the general’s wife, wearing 
a fur cloak, hooded for the cold, yet pinched by 
northern winds, has just stepped out of her litter to 
take the air on the unfinished ramparts; over the 
half-built fort the Legionaries, partly covered from 
what to them is the cold of the climate, are doing 
the masons’ work, whilst dotted among them are the 
hardier half-naked Britons who have been impressed 
to bear the stones and cement. At the back the 
river Medlock, undulant and translucent in these pre¬ 
manufacturing times, bounds the camp on the south ; 
and forest oaks, red with the last leaves of November, 
fill the space between the river and the distant Peak 
hills, seen only in a streak of blue. It does not 
escape observation that the naturally black hair of 
the general’s wife is represented as dyed yellow, her 
eyebrows remaining black; and this is intended to 
indicate the luxury of Roman living even in a camp. 
Then it is seen that the lady holds in hand her little 
son, who, attired in soldier’s uniform and wearing 
huge caliga boots, is aiming a kick at one of his 
mother’s Nubian chair-bearers; and this serves to 
denote the tyranny which can find expression even in 
the mischievous act of a child. The colour of the 
panel is mainly that of the red of the old local sand¬ 
stone on a bleak, sunless day, relieved by the silvery 
streak of the Medlock where the river is seen winding 
between the fort and the remote hills. The happiest 
conception is perhaps the chilling wind which passes 
over the entire face of the picture, agitating the 
garments of the southern conquerors and dashing 
aside the beards of the toiling British subjects. It 
is a wild and stern picture, which presents an 
admirable conception of the Roman epoch in the 
history of Manchester. 

More than five hundred years are allowed to 
intervene between the period of the first and that of 
the second panel. Manchester forms now a part of the 
Kingdom of Dei’ra, and is under the rule of Edwin 
of Northumbria. The fresco depicts the baptism of 
Edwin at York, his capital, in the year of our Lord 
6;i7. Edwin, who had been a pagan and a fugitive, 
had at length regained his inheritance and success¬ 
fully annexed the surrounding country, becoming the 
most powerful of the English kings. He had sought 
in marriage Ethelberga, daughter of the Christian 



King- of Kent, who stipulated as -a condition of the 
union that she and her retinue should be allowed the 
free exercise of their religion; and this being con¬ 
ceded, she (aided by her bishop, Paulinus) effected 
within six years after the marriage the conversion of 
her husband. It is said that Easter Sunday, 627, 
was marked in Northumbria by two momentous 
events—the birth of a princess, and an attempt to 
assassinate the King. Yielding to the solicitation of 
Paulinus, the King, awed by these circumstances, per¬ 
mitted the baptism of the princess, and, setting out 
in battle against the King who had instigated the 
murder, promised to become a Christian in the event 
of his safe return. He overthrew the enemy, returned, 
and was baptised. The fresco depicts the ceremony 
at York. On the left of the picture, Edwin, uncovered 
to the waist, is seen kneeling in the font with 
drooped head and clasped hands whilst the sacra¬ 
mental water is poured over him by one of the 
officiating priests. On the right, Ethelberga stands 
with eager expression of face. Behind the King is 
Paulinus, whose appearance the Venerable Bede has 
minutely described, and of whom Wordsworth has 
given a yet more vivid presentment in the sonnet 
under his name. This presentment Mr. Madox Brown 
has entirely realised. Behind the Queen numbers 
of the King's subjects are seen contemplating the 
ceremony with mingled feelings of awe, surprise, 
delight, regret, and curiosity. The eyes are especially 
drawn to the beautiful face of the young Queen 
herself. In its fixed, scarce-satisfied look is seen 
the full story of all that has gone before that great 
change of life and purpose of which this ceremony 
is but the outward sign. The ceaseless yearning and 
unabating fervour of six weary, waiting, shadowed 
years have left a painful tension of muscle which 
takes somewhat from the beauty of this fair face; but 
the little group of which it forms the central figure 
has not anywhere been surpassed for loveliness, even 
by Mr. Madox Brown himself. The chief feature 
in the scheme of colour, blue, takes its tone from 
this group, being fix-st employed in the flowing 
dress of the Queen, and afterwards echoed in the 
lower robe of the priest by the font, going off in the 
brightly tinted bird on the left. There is no harsh 
intensity in the colour of the panel, which nowhei'e 
lapses into heaviness; yet evex-y shade is emphatic, 
and the whole atmosphere, though subdued, is sunny 
and sometimes sparkling. 

The third of the panels represents the expulsion 
of the Danes from Manchester, about a.d. 910. 
The front of the picture shows a narrow winding 
street of a wood-built city; and rushing down 
its steep pavement, the Danes are seen making 
for an open gateway which discloses the open 
country beyond, where peaceful fields lie green in 

the early sunshine, and an old Saxon church in the 
distance breaks the line of the purple hills. A rich 
young chieftain, badly wounded, has been snatched 
up from the thick conflict where he fell, and is being 
borne past on a hastily-constructed stretcher, his 
companions endeavouring meantime to protect him 
with their uplifted shields as they run the gauntlet of 
the townsfolks’ missiles. From the windows which 
overlook the street, the women, old men, and young 
children not actively engaged in hand-to-hand en¬ 
counter with the invaders, bear a part in the general 
struggle. A tile just thrown from the still out¬ 
stretched hand of a woman has struck down the 
Raven standard-bearer; an aged inmate of the same 
house is in the act of throwing a spear, whilst two 
little boys are gleefully emptying a tub of boiling 
water on the fugitives. In the squai’e on the left 
the soldiers of Edward the Elder are beating back 
the last warriors of the Danes; and by the foot¬ 
worn steps of the city gate on the right a number of 
their vanquished companions, now under the shelter 
of the rampart, are seen to pause, and re-gather their 
strength to hurl back threats of future vengeance. 
The central position in the panel is occupied by oire 
of the two men who bear the stretcher, and on this 
figure an infinity of pains must have been bestowed. 
Before this man four others have fallen confusedly, 
and the nervous twitchings of his eager face as he 
essays to pass the spot where their bodies cumber the 
pathway are clearly expi’essive of his fear that the 
shields held over him may not protect him iir his 
exposed position. Two chained-up dogs bark fiei’cely 
at the runaways; over the thatched roof of a pig¬ 
gery a lighted torch has been thrown, and is seen 
smouldering, while the pig within looks out of the 
pen in which it seems doomed to pei’ish with some¬ 
thing that must be desei’ibed as a startled expx-ession 
of face. The scene is painted in the full flood of 
morning sunlight thrown upon the white of the 
wood-built houses, against which are cast the dark 
sailor costumes of the Danes. It would be difficult 
to describe the splendour of sunlit colour which 
animates the composition. 

Cartoons for two further panels have just been 
completed. Of these the first depicts “ The Estab¬ 
lishment of Flemish Weavers in Manchester; ” the 
second, “ Crabtree (the Manchester astronomer) 
watching the Transit of Venus (1639) A The 
former is said to have reminded Mr. Madox Brown 
of a subject thought out cai’efully some twenty- 
five years ago (Queen Philippa visiting her Flemish 
Weavers), and certain features of the projected com¬ 
position ai’e introduced into the Manchester design. 
It seems certain that, as panels, these two com¬ 
positions will be not less successful than they are 
as cartoons. T. Hall Caine. 



A COMPANION picture to the “ Three Weeks 
After,” which we engraved in the preceding 
number, is <c The Honeymoon,” also by M. Duez, 
painted in much the same key of cool yet rich 
colour, though with a different choice of tints, and 
also treating of two figures in an interior adorned 
by bric-a-brac. A stormy scene is in progress: 

does is marked by the best characteristics of a 
school of painting which is thoroughly well trained 
and solidly skilful, without any great personality or 
special charm. In the present example, of which 
we give a full-page engraving, he is seen to con¬ 
siderable advantage. The picture, which is pure 
landscape—the figures that are introduced being 


(From the Painting by Phil Morris.) 

Madame (on the sofa) is nursing a grievance with 
great determination; her coquettish head, ebouriffee 
for a party, is tossed among the cushions; and the 
passage of light blue in her dress, surrounded with 
soft greyish-white fur, makes the chief mass of colour 
and brightness in the picture. Monsieur makes his 
vain appeal over the back of the sofa. With this 
must end our notes of Captain Hill’s French pic¬ 
tures—a small but important group upon his walls. 
The art of Bavaria is represented by—among other 
works—one of M. Miinthe’s invariable but always 
welcome snow-studies, “ Winter.” Invariable in 
subject and in effect they certainly are, but they 
always differ from each other by some variety of 
natural incident, or the special development of some 
particular excellence in techniqiie. All this artist 

altogether secondary in interest and not essentially 
important—is made up of dying lights, and troubled 
skies, and the strange uncanny glimmer that per¬ 
vades the atmosphere of an evening that is white 
with snow. There is everywhere a sense of winter, 
a feeling of chill, an impression of inclemency and 
discomfort: in the rugged, wheel-worn, dirty track, 
in the gaunt and solemn woods, in the cold and 
melancholy distance. In summer it would be a 
pleasant place enough : a place of grass and liowers, 
and the singing of birds; of cool winds among rust¬ 
ling, twinkling leafage; of cheerful shadows and 
lights, and the mystery and romance of stately trees. 
But in summer M. Miinthe would have passed it by. 
He has the sentiment of cold and snow and angry 
sunsets at his brushes’ end, and he is never weary 

WINTER, (From the Painting by Mtinthe.) 




of expressing it. It would profit him—and us, too 
-—now and then to vary his theme; but it must 
be admitted that, within these limits, he is an able 
and attractive painter, and is therefore justified in 
doing exactly as he will. 

To Mr. Phil Morris’s “Cradled in his Calling” 
we have merely alluded in our former notes. It is 
in some respects the artist’s most delightful picture: 
the grace of the composition, the buoyant movement 
of the actions, the atmosphere, and the prevailing 
blue sea-light, combining to give it a peculiar charm. 
A troup of fisher-folk, going on their way over the 
cliffs, have swung the baby in one of his father’s 
nets by way of hammock, and are carrying him 
so in the breeze and sunshine of the coast. The 
figures are drawn with uncommon grace and impulse. 
Among the larger and more important composi¬ 
tions which Captain Hill has chosen from the 
many works of the same artist is “ The End of the 
Journey,” one of those quasi-allegorical subjects 
which are so popular in contemporary English art, 
having, besides the primary meaning, a secondary 
one by no means apt to be lost through a want of 
obviousness or a too great reserve in its suggestion. 
In “The End of the Journey” an old soldier has 
returned to his native hamlet, and has reached the 
ferry which will take him across the peaceful stream 
to his home. It is evening, and beyond the water, 
against the waning light, comes the ferryman to 
meet him; in this figure, with its quasi-classic line 
and action, the suggestion of Charon is of course 
apparent. A young girl, who has helped to carry 
the old man’s drum, stands at his side, her fresh 
beauty contrasting with his melancholy wrinkles. 
Assuredly the picture is particularly pleasing to the 
lovers of easy allegory; but it is valuable in an 
artistic sense for the quality of its work and for its 
many merits of light and effect. Still more to our 
taste on these accounts is the original and brilliant 
composition of the “ Ship-builders.” Mr. Morris 
has made it noisy with the clatter of the mallets 
and hammers of his ship’s carpenters, as they stand 
driving their blows into the vessel’s sides in strokes 
which come in groups, in succession, in single sounds, 
and in cannonades, after the manner of many ham¬ 
mers at work; the ear can imagine the irregular but 
pleasant rhythm of the blows. All sounds of manual 
labour, it may be said in passing, have a certain 
beauty. Who that has been at harvest-time in Swit¬ 
zerland has not marked the busy noise of the flails 
at work on the threshing-floor, as they beat their 
well-accentuated time to a tune they create in the 
listener’s head? So with all sounds of spade, pick, 
creaking wain, loom and shuttle, plashing oars, the 
“ sweep of scythe in morning grass; ” all these 
are distinctly beautiful, whereas the sounds of all 

kinds of machine-labour are unquestionably ugly. 
When the hand of man is behind the tool it makes a 
pleasant, poetic, or suggestive sound ; but when it sets 
steam or other power at work to move the tool, the 
result is invariably an intolerable noise, such as the 
yell of the steam-whistle, the ringing buzz and whirr 
of a saw-mill, the hard roar of an express train, and 
all the other too familiar clatters, screams, rattles, and 
bangs which distract the air of the modern world. As 
attractive as Mr. Morris’s “ Ship-builders,” in another 
manner, is the somewhat slight and very dreamy wood¬ 
land study, with its sauntering figures—“Journeys 
End in Lovers Meeting.” The title, by the way, 
is not very obviously appropriate, as the lovers have 
evidently met some time before, and the ladies who 
follow are otherwise interested. 

One of Mr. Holl’s many works not hitherto 
noticed is the clever group of a blind old pensioner 
leaning on the arm of a young girl, as the two fare 
along a country road together. The contented and 
recollected action of the blind man is as good and 
characteristic as the absent and weary look of the 
girl, whose somewhat vulgar fancifulness of attire 
attests inclinations which ill accord with the slow 
walk and slower talk of her companion ; her energetic 
young limbs move in constraint. “ Fortune-Telling” 
is one of Mr. Britten’s attractive classical groups, in 
which he shows great grace of line in composition. 
From Mr. Buckman’s hand we have a study of 
action—■“ Football ’’—not so energetic in movement, 
perhaps, as well composed and pleasantly coloured, 
the decorative treatment being preserved, it may 
be, at some expense of realistic intensity. Mr. 
Poole’s “Going out for the Night” is an excellent 
specimen of the artist’s powers; and there are many 
qualities in his painting which seem to gain strength 
in the woodcut which we give on the opposite page. 
It is a likeable picture. The sentiment is kindly 
and human ; the motive, in a conventional kind of 
way, is fairly artistic; the situation presented is 
one that is interesting to a vast number of persons. 
The father and breadwinner—an honest fisherman, 
with a boat of his own, and a good wife to work for 
—is pushing off into the darkness of night and the 
solitude of the sea. The wife and little one have 
come down to the beach to see him depart—perchance 
to help him with his lines, and to carry his food for 
him; and now, with a last good-bye or two, they are 
turning to go home again, and leave him to his toil. 
Is that all ? Not quite all. “ Perhaps,” says Mr. 
Poole, with a dark yet comfortable smile—“perhaps, 
good people, he may never come hack. The sea is 
treacherous and strong; boats are but frail, and men 
are but men ; along the coast there’s many a woman 
goes to bed a fisher’s wife, and gets up a fisher’s 
widow. This time the chances are, I think, that the 



man will duly return, with a contented mind and a 
full load of fish; so you need not be more than 
tenderly anxious and pleasantly distressed. In a 
certain class of picture, perhaps, a note, a hint, a 
latent possibility, of the Pathetic is always an essen¬ 
tial element; and of this class the present work, 

perhaps rather that of the designer and illustrator 
than that of the painter of pictures, hit upon a 
telling little subject in this work. Most persons 
remember Mr. Molloy’s taking song, which was sung 
some eight years ago at every piano in the country. 
The words which were wedded to the clever and 


(From the Picture by J. Poole, R.A.) 

f Going out for the Night/ is, on the whole, a very 
charming specimen.” 

Pictures with a purpose are seldom so success¬ 
ful as the “Vagabond;” the point is generally 
driven home with too much violence. In Mr. 
Barnard’s picture the artist has certainly not erred 
on the side of over-refined subtlety. Nevertheless 
his is the kind of comic genre in which insistence 
offends as little as it does in the comedy of Mr. H. J. 
Byron. Mr. Barnard, whose remarkable talent is 

swinging melody were somewhat swaggering in type 
and humour, but their effect was duly tempered by 
a short passage in a softer and milder vein. They 
asked in cheerful defiance who was so free in the land 
and who so contented as the “ homeless, ragged and 
tanned” wanderer, who was supposed to troll the 
carol as he tramped it " under a wintry sky.” The 
song had exactly that false air of masculine vigour 
which gives relief after too much mawkishness; and 
the basses and baritones of England, who had long 



felt a certain disproportion between their voices and 
the “ flowerets " and “ fairy glens " about which they 
had often been fain to warble, were glad to 
find a lyric more to their taste. Every sing¬ 
ing-man shouted the “ Vagabond/' and may 
even have considered that there was something 
artistic and sincere in the words and music of 
the famous ditty. Mr. Barnard has depicted 
the usual drawing-room scene: a “ little 
music" and the inevitable “Vagabond" in 
full swing at the piano, a manly voice per¬ 
forming it to a feminine accompaniment. 

The sense of light and warmth, the easy, 
blatant complacency of the singer, the 
pleasant self-satisfaction of the accompanist 
—with her graceful draperies, her pretty 
head, her fingers skilfully hovering!—are 
cleverly rendered, and help Mr. Barnard with 
his contrast—his epigram in design—amaz¬ 
ingly. Another panel of the picture shows 
the fact so glibly treated of in the catching 
melody and the facile verse, and makes the 

midnight, or thereabouts; the hero a wretched beggar, 
pinched and livid and broken, cold to the marrow. 



(From the Picture by F. Barnard.) 

and hugging his rags to his shivering body 
in a vain attempt to make them whole and 
serviceable. It needs but little fancy to 
imagine how he feels, for Mr. Barnard has 
caught and reproduced the peculiar gesture— 
in the reality an unpleasant and affecting 
motion ; partly of hugging and shrinking, and 
partly of shivering and writhing—of those 
whose very vitals are a-cold, with a good deal 
of spirit. Being a professional satirist, he has 
gone out of his way, after the manner of his 
kind, to point a moral and adorn his tale. 
What is now-a-days, and in a case of this 
sort, so easy to do ? Dickens, one of the 
greatest of novelists and largest-hearted of 
men, has shown the way in his own incom¬ 
parable style; and Mr. Barnard, with neither 
Dickens's ideal to achieve, nor Dickens's pas¬ 
sion to bear him on to the achievement, has 
followed in it dutifully enough. His hero is 
comfortable singer look even more smugly superfluous dying of cold and hunger, and dying so on the 
than 'tis his nature to. The scene is a doorstep ; the threshold of a Refuge for Homeless Dogs, and in 
season, winter —tueur des pauvres gens; the time, the shadow of a placard calling on the charitable to 


(From the Picture by F. Barnard.') 



subscribe for the benefit of certain sick and wounded, 
tbc victims of a foreign war. Evidently the picture 
would have been better art and stronger work if 
Mr. Barnard had been content to rely a little more 
on himself, and a little less on the 
effect of his points. 

It will be seen from all this that 
the Hill collection, which the courtesy 
of its owner has enabled us to de¬ 
scribe, has many and great merits, and 
has been made with much originality 
and insight. Work of the highest 
excellence accompanies much that 
is good and sound. It would be all 
the better, no doubt, if it comprised 
examples of the sincere and splendid 
romanticism of Eugene Delacroix; the 
fine, expressive, individual classicism of 
Ingres ; the robust and daring mastery 
of Courbet; the richness and vivacity of 
Diaz ; the ideal naturalism of Constable; 
the force and dignity and charm of 
Theodore Rousseau; the austere and 
dignified sincerity, the deep imaginative 
melancholy, the consummate facture of 
Legros; the romance and subtlety, the 
hardihood and the persuasiveness, ‘'“'the 
beauty and the wonder and the power ” 
of Burne-Jones. But in these days of 
high prices and sesthetic lunes, when 
works of art are all but worshipped, 
and a second year’s exhibitor, if he is 
only moderately lucky, can sell his pic¬ 
tures for a sum that, paid for the 
“Angelus ” or “ Le Bueheron et la Mort,” 
would have made Millet feel himself a 
rising painter and a prosperous man, the 
wonder is to see a gathering of modern 
art at once so representative and choice, 
at once so excellent and complete. 

Captain Hill is master of a real treasure- 
house of art. Upon his walls are ex¬ 
pressions of the random talent of George 
Moreland and the august genius of 
JrF. Millet; of the strong, masculine 
style of Frank Holl and the attractive 
and peculiar art of George Mason; of 
the brilliance and daring and accom¬ 
plishment of Degas and the sweet temper and quiet 
poetry of Israels. In his gallery Fred. Walker is 
elbowed by Phil Moms; an Orchardson sets off 
a David Cox; the exquisite auhades of Corot con¬ 
trast with the high-handed and swaggering drama 
of Pettie. Yal Prinsep and Val Bromley, Miinthe 
and Crome, Macbeth and Duez and Leslie—all are 
well and worthily represented. There are many 

buyers; but there are few indeed who have bought 
so well and wisely as Captain Hill. He has looked 
about him for art, and he has taken it wherever 
he found it. It is the way with every true picture- 


(From the Picture by W. Britten.) 

lover. When he seeks out a painter, it is not for 
his name’s sake, but his art’s; when he buys a 
picture, it is merely that the picture pleases him. 
He knows that such dealing endows him with the 
privilege of communing at will with the greatest 
minds of the world at their highest instants of ex¬ 
pression, and that a great picture contains the withal 
for high thoughts and noble emotions always. 


rpHE general public will experience considerable 
JL disappointment on visiting this collection of 
paintings, especially if they have read the very lau¬ 
datory criticisms by which it has been accompanied. 
Many persons who were not familiar with Palmer’s 
work were looking forward to a great treat in seeing 
these pictures, which, they had always heard, were 
most nobly-conceived and gorgeously-coloured com¬ 
positions. But the public of to-day is more exacting 
than was that of forty years ago. It knows more, 
it demands more, and in particular it considers itself 
entitled to hold decided opinions about colour ; and 
it is on the score of colour that the more ambitious 
of Palmer’s pictures cause disappointment. At the 
time when these large compositions were arranged 
in high-pitched tones, such work was admired, 
such ambition was thought noble. Now, truth and 
harmony are considered as being essential parts of 
every picture—particularly in landscape; and the 
trumpetings of partisanship merely induce people to 
expect much more than can be given. 

It is Palmer’s early oil-colours and first water¬ 
colour drawings that are likely to he found not 
entirely satisfactory, while his smaller drawings are 
sometimes charming and his etchings often delight¬ 
ful. In his more ambitious works—the subjects of 
which are taken from Milton, or have been suggested 
by travel in Italy—the spectator is confronted with 
hard, hot tints instead of excpiisite colouring, and 
with a monotonous heavy touch instead of the delicate 
manipulation he had been led to expect. When the 
paintings are not of distant views, the vegetation is 
heaped up in the foreground and clings closely to the 
foliage behind, so that the effect—as in “The Kentish 
Hop-Garden,” or in some of the early Miltonic 
subjects—is that of plants and trees which have 
been pressed together or rolled out. It is curious 
to reflect that forty years can have made so great 
a change in art, or have rendered these paintings 
so essentially old-fashioned. Nor do we feel more 
drawn towards them by being told that in atmos¬ 
pheric effect they resemble the work of Turner— 
who might writhe in his grave at such an imputation 
—nor soothed by hearing that Claude Lorraine was 
Palmer’s chief model. “The Kentish Hop-Garden” 
has, however, a certain charm of its own, and, 
regarded as the production of a young man, it would 
suggest that good work was likely to follow. 

Of the city views, that one called “ Pompeian 
Memories ” is interesting in its subject, so that the 
rather over-bright colouring of the buildings may be 

excused. The ruined city stands in its narrow valley, 
open at one end to the sea, and half encircled 
by dark blue mountains, over which tower bright 
massive clouds. The point of view chosen in 
“Amphitheatre, Pompeii,” is an unfortunate one, 
as the oval arena appears to be tilted up on end. 
“Tivoli and the Campagna of Rome” is old-fashioned 
and tedious. 

There are three water-colour drawings here that 
are very attractive. Of these, No. 93, “ The Furze 
Field,” is a charming study, thoroughly modern in 
feeling, and gives well the impression of the perfect 
stillness that is characteristic of flat country. The 
sprawling green furze in the foreground is admirably 
suggested. A study of tree-tops, called “ Reigate,” 
is very true and good. No. 15, “A Farmyard,” 
recently finished, as the catalogue informs us, is 
another pleasant study : this time of roof-tops, with 
flat country beyond, leading the eye over a blue 
valley to low, dim hills beyond. “Ponte Rotto” is 
a fascinating view of a small, irregularly-built town 
on rising ground, beside a broad, shallow river, which 
a dark bridge spans with low, simple arches. Red- 
roofed houses rise in a confused pile on one side, 
while a dim, blue plain can be just discerned over 
the bridge, beyond which rises sharply against the 
horizon a range of jagged, rocky mountains, and 
above them is a rolling sky of luminous cumuli, 
with narrow layers of thin, dark cloud fleeting before 
them. This picture is a charming composition, and 
is made complete by a pine-tree, which flings its 
length across the upper corner of the canvas, by 
this means balancing the city and the mass of cloud 
on the other side of the design. 

Palmer’s etchings are most interesting, and show 
how good he was in design when not led away by a 
vain search after colour. Two etchings in one frame, 
called “ The Vine,” with figures of dancing children, 
are gay and charming. “ The Skylark ” and “ The 
Sleeping Shepherd ” are better seen thus as etch¬ 
ings than as paintings. In the second of these the 
shepherd is seated on the ground in a trellised door¬ 
way, with his flock of sheep huddled together outside, 
while a ploughman, with his team of oxen, climbs 
the brow of the hill beyond, looking large against 
the sunrise sky. Figures seen thus against the sky 
do no doubt strike the eye as looking large, and 
Walter Crane in a recent drawing represented a 
similar group in this way; but it is disturbing to the 
composition, and attracts too much attention. Fred. 
Walker understood this, and softened his figures when 

“ CANOSSA, 1077.” 


placed against the sky. Samuel Palmer often drew 
the rays of the piercing sun through the foliage of 
trees, or glancing through their stems. This effect 
is most successfully gained in “ The Herdsman’s 
Cottage.” He also well understood how to draw a 
fleeting 1 mass of clouds. “ The Bellman ” shows ah- 
ruptly hilly country, the road leading downwards, 
with the village in the darkening valley below. 
Above, the stars are beginning to twinkle into notice 
one by one. A dark mass of buildings stands on the left 

hand, with an open door showing a warmly-lighted 
interior; in the porch sit young folks, who pause 
in their talk to listen to the bellman, as he walks 
briskly past them along the downward road, swinging 
his bell by his side as he strides along. 

On the whole this exhibition, unequal as it is, is 
of much interest, and introduces us to a master of 
classic landscape whose claims upon attention will 
increase rather than diminish, as his style becomes 
more historic, and therefore less old-fashioned. 

“ CANOSSA, 1077.” ■ 

From the Picture by J. A. Clxtysenaar. 

T HE scene in the castle-yard of Canossa, which 
we engrave, has been a favourite subject with 
artists on account of its vivid combination of his¬ 
torical and pictorial interest. The arrogance of the 
venerable Pope Gregory VII., the humiliation of 
the crushed Emperor Henry IV. of Germany, and 
the contrasts of costume and character afforded by 
this great crisis in the strife between the Church 
and the Empire, have tempted the imagination of 
many an ambitious painter. 

It is not always that history can thus sum 
up a revolution in a single scene. A generation 
earlier the Papacy seemed on the brink of dissolu¬ 
tion, and was rescued from schism and degradation 
only by the vigorous intervention and the over¬ 
mastering authority of the German Emperor. But 
Hildebrand, who appears in our illustration as Pope 
Gregory VII., gathered the reformed authority of 
the Papal throne into a force which over-mastered 
its reformer. Henry IV., one of the noblest of 
German Emperors, strove in vain to resist his dicta¬ 
tion. He spent his life in the struggle to assert the 
supremacy of the civil over the ecclesiastical power 
within his own dominions. But his sovereignty was 
undermined at every point b}^ his austere and un¬ 
wearying opponent, till at length he was beaten to 
big knees by the combination of national and spiritual 
terrors with which Gregory VII. threatened him. 
Deserted, heart-broken, and conscience-stricken, the 
fallen Emperor came to Canossa to seek reconcilia¬ 
tion with his conqueror; but it was not till he had 
long cowered as a suppliant in the snow-clad court¬ 
yard that Gregory considered the sin of an Emperor’s 
resistance expiated, and admitted him to pardon. 
After eight centuries the struggle between Pope and 
German Emperor remains still undecided, and in 
the modern phase of the question there is not want¬ 
ing many an exultant prophecy that Prince Bismarck 

in his time will confess defeat and “ go to Canossa.” 
The subject, however, is one which still awaits its 
perfect interpreter on canvas. 

In our picture the artist has made the most of 
his materials in the matter of group and line, but 
not as regards expression, the several figures and 
faces being animated by conventional and obvious 
motives. He has treated his subject picturesquely, 
but without strong invention or realism, and has 
produced a good theatrical picture from correctly 
posed models, rather than a work of power. Archi¬ 
tecture, cowl and helm, tiara and crown, crook and 
sword are there, with all the rather matter-of-course 
effectiveness they produce, but little directness of 
thought or feeling. A greater interest would attach 
to the work if the artist had chosen to be more 
of a partisan—had given us an emaciated Emperor 
worn with fasting and with his painful vigil in the 
famous courtyard, cowering before a power which 
had crushed his heart; or a generous penitent to 
whom the words of Frederick William Faber’s sonnet 
might apply:— 

“ In one place and at one solemn hour 
The passing shadow of eternal power 
In momentary transit deeply fell 
On all the pride and pageant of the world. 

Men brooked the admonition, and they gazed 
Like seers inspired, while in their souls they felt 
That he who stooped was by submission raised 
Near to the height of that to which he knelt.” 

In the one case an element of terror, entirely 
absent from M. Cluysenaar’s picture, would of course 
be the leading motive; and in the other the types of 
the Papal courtiers and the dominant expression of 
the Pontiff and his prelates would have assumed a 
far more noble character than that which the artist 
has impressed upon them. 



M. Cluysenaar was, we believe, a comparatively 
young- artist when lie painted this picture, which, 
exhibited at the historical collection at Brussels in 

as a sign and summary of the artistic history of 
the country during that period. Every available 
picture of merit painted from the year 1830 to the 

CANOSSA, 1077. 

(From the Picture by J. A. Cluysenaar.) 

1880, won so much favour that it was bought for per¬ 
manent preservation in the Belgian National Gallery. 
A word may lie said as to the historical exhibition 
in question. It was thought desirable to collect the 
principal works produced by Belgian artists during 
the space of half a century, and to exhibit them 

year 1880 \vas brought out of public buildings, 
private galleries, and artists’ studios, and shown in 
the newly-opened Palais des Beaux-Arts on the 1st 
of August, 1880. The idea of such a record is a 
good one, and might, with advantage, be adopted 
and realised by ourselves. 



I HAVE my own theories about Jack 
Frost. He may have been a respect¬ 
able person, and born of poor but honest 
parents—or he may not. I do not wish 
to say more, for, as Sancho Panza says, 

“Mum is a good dog, and the least said is 
soonest mended; if you go no further you will 
fare no worse, and when speech is silver, silence 
is golden; a word is enough, and it is no use 
pouring water on a drowned mouse.” And so, 
too, says Teresa, the wife of Panza, and San- 
chica, his daughter. But this I do not hesitate 
to affirm, that it is impossible to remain long in 
ill-temper with Jack Fi-ost. He is so bright and 
cheery himself that every one else walks briskly, 
says “ good morning ” cheerily, and looks healthy 
and happy. There are those, no doubt, among our 
“ inferior-animal ” relatives who entertain only a 
moderate enthusiasm for Jack Frost. For one thing, 
they do not skate. Our friends the fowls, for in¬ 
stance, may think worse of the ground for being 
so hard; but, after all, the cock’s looking for worms 
is mere affectation at the best of times, and his 
finding them is always a gross imposition upon the 
credulity of his obsequious wives. The pig, too, in a 
gentlemanly way, objects to the straw being chilly 
to his snout; but he also is so well-cared for else- 


where, that if he complains it is only because he 
cannot help complaining. Protest is as natural to 
a pig as the curl in his tail. And up in the empty 
elm yonder the “ privileged robin ” pipes gratefully 
for favours yet to come, and the lyric blackbird, 
less adventurous, hazards a brief appearance on the 
glittering rail—“just to show that he is there.” 

But is it not worth noting how we, the men and 
women of England, always think of these winter 
months as a time of hoar-frost and ice and snow? It 
is characteristic, no doubt, of human beings, and no 
doubt quite becoming too, that they should always 
look at Nature only as it affects themselves. Men 
and women are, after all, the very best animals 
known to naturalists on the earth, and if they were 
not to arrogate a certain amount of privilege on 




the ground of their superiority. Nature would be 
thrown out of gear. If the tiger permitted other 
carnivorous beasts to come and board themselves in 
his jungles, he and his might often have to be con¬ 
tent with short-commons. So he roars vehemently 
if he sees any other flesh-eating creature inclined to 
become a neighbour, and if the hint is not taken, he 
proceeds to personal violence, and makes as short 
work as possible of the trespasser. In the same 
way the big spider spins himself a very big web, 
and stretches bis threads right across a whole corner 
of the garden, as a public intimation to the rest 
of his fly-catching acquaintance that that particular 
corner is his own preserve, and that everything that 
flies that way is for his own larder. 

Man acts in precisely the same way. Though 
a diminutive animal as compared with some, and 
absurdly feeble as compared with others, he is incom¬ 
parably “the fittest” of all the races that he lives 
amongst, and by his intelligence, self-helpfulness, 
and courage has established a complete dominion 
over the whole Noah’s ark. This dominion he 
expresses, for instance, by catching them all, de¬ 
priving them of their liberty, and making them live 
as his guests in cages in Regent’s Park. But not 
content with having subdued all the nations of 
created things, and made playthings, as it were, of 
the kings of the forest and plain, of the air, the 
rivers and the seas, he aspires to an absolute auto¬ 
cracy in Nature, and treats even the seasons as if 
they, too, were the captives of his bow and spear. 

His long reign has apparently made him forget that 
the seasons were originally instituted without his 
being consulted, and that winter follows autumn 
without any regard to man’s welfare, or the re¬ 
verse. When Nature printed her programme she 
sent Man no proofs to revise; yet he seems to have 
come to look at everything only as relative to him¬ 
self and his own belongings, quite forgetful of the 
fact that all the world was made before he was, and 
that it was very complete without him. The solemn 
procession of the seasons dignified the years in which 
he, man, had no part;. and spring, summer, autumn, 
and winter long divided between them a world in 
which there were no such thing's as human beings. 
But man came at last, an inquisitive, audacious, and 
handy little animal, who would not submit to the 
tyranny of natural phenomena. 

He refused, after a while, to go and wallow in 
pools, or hide under bushes, simply because the sun 
was hot, or to be starved or chilled to death simply 
because frost was cold. He put a roof over bis bead 
and a fire on his hearth, and looked out of doors 
complacently at the weather. There was a sense 
of triumph at this achievement in his heart of hearts, 
no doubt, and with it came also a sense of the com¬ 
parative impotence of Nature. As centuries rolled 
on, the two feelings increased together, and each 
cycle of victories over Nature brought with it an 
enhanced idea of his own mastery on the earth, 
until at last he came to forget that he had ever 
had to fight for life with the sun, and the wind, and 




the rain, and the snow, and began to think 
of the elements only in relation to their 
utility to himself. He took them all into 
his service, as it were, and, like politic Caesar, 
utilising for his own empire's advantage 
the barbarian peoples he had conquered, 
loftily overlooked their previous attitude 
towards himself. He now considers that 
the duty of Spring is to make his gar¬ 
dens brighten into leaf and fiower, the 
country-side smile for him with early 
verdure, and the fields with the first 
promise of coming harvests. Summer 
has his commands laid upon it to ripen 
his fruit in the orchards and his crops 
in the meadows, and to bring fine 
weather that he and his wife and his 
children may make holiday. Autumn 
sweats under the work of harvesting ( I 
his fruit and grain, labours under his 1 

loaded waggons and the toil of filling 
his barns. And then comes Winter, to give 
the soil the rest it needs, and to bring with it 
Christmas-time and the New Year, the ice and 
snow, and merry-making. Each has, thus, its 
apportioned share in his twelvemonth’s plans, 
and each its part to play in his annual scheme. 
Man reckons upon the Seasons not failing him 
—not apparently from any consciousness of the 



dignity of these ancient ministers of Nature and the necessity that 
the world has of them, but because he has made his own pre¬ 
parations, and expects their conduct to accord with them. He 
has come to look upon winter as the consequence of his having 
harvested his crops and of his calendar prognosticating 
Christmas Day for the 25th of December. Spring, in the 


same way, he says, will naturally result from his plough¬ 
ing his fields and sowing his corn. And so on, through 
each month of the year. 

This may seem, perhaps, straining fancy too far, 
but it .is not really exaggeration; for how many of us, 
finding winter coming on, think of it as other than 
that which we ourselves feel and see ? We are pleased 
to discover a special adaptability to our own welfare, 
physical and moral, in the Season of Cold, and, simply 
because we happen to live in regions that still lie under 
“ the glacial curse/’ to depict our “ Winter/’ and think of 
it, as an essential phenomenon of Nature. It is, of course, 
nothing of the kind, for more fortunate regions are spared 
this terror of the North, and, with perpetual summer about them, hardly note the successive changes from 
flower to fruit, and from fruit to flower again. It is true that physiologists tell us—and history seems 
to affirm it—that the Northern races are the best, because they share the polar bear’s discomforts; and 
that the Southern races, having no “’bracing” winter, are bound to go down in the conflict of peoples. 
But this may be as it may. The fact remains that the only inhabitants of these British Isles who do 
not stay to enjoy our bracing weather in our company are the only ones who can escape doing so— 
the birds. Physiology does not apparently convince them, at any rate, of the advantages and dignity of 
being frozen; and as soon as they see the lime-tree leaves beginning to wilt and sadden, they are off 
to more comfortable climates and to easier living. They have no ambition to become hardy Norsemen, 
these swallow and cuckoo folk. All they care about is sunshine and plenty of food; so they leave us 
wingless islanders where we are, “encompassed by our inviolate sea,” to develop our muscle and to qualify 
for survival, while they themselves go off to the Delectable Mountains in the lands of the cypress and 
myrtle. Does not even this hint of the migration of birds put another aspect on our winter ? It becomes. 






somehow, the gloomier for their departure. The 
nightingale will not stay to see it out, and the 
tnrtle-dove carries oft’ his mate to winter in Algiers 
and Egypt. Our unfurnished woods are all “to 
let” again, for the “warbler” tribes have departed, 
by families and parishes; and not a wagtail of 
them all, white, yellow, pied, or grey, is to he found 
by our streams. There are no flies to catch and 
so the flycatchers, their occupation gone, are off and 
away hawking for insects on Lebanon; while our 
sedge birds, now that the willows are hare, are busy 
on the banks of the rivers of Damascus. The corn¬ 
crake has deserted our Kentish meadow lands for the 
mustard-fields of Persia, and the swift and swallow 
tribes our keen English air for the balmier atmos¬ 
pheres of Morocco and Cathay. AY by have all these 
gone, taking with them their pretty comrades of 
our summer woodlands ? Simply because they think, 
these dainty little courtiers of the sun, that our 
winter is not fit for them to live in. 

Our animals, fortunately, cannot follow summer 
as the birds do, or perhaps our hares and rabbits, 
our squirrels and dormice, would all go away too. 
But they, poor things, can no more escape from 
England than the dodo could from Mauritius, or the 
moa from New Zealand. Or it may be that they 
are content to stay where they are, under the delu¬ 
sion that if they only suffer long enough from ice 
and snow they may compass the proportions of the 
animals of the Glacial Period. Y\ ith so much talk 
going on all round them about the invigorating 
effects of winter, it may be that they have come 
to believe that they too, if they stay with us, will 
Darwinise thicker fleeces on to their backs, and even 
—who knows?—develop tusks like the Dinotherium, 
or shells like the Glyptodon. As it is, poor bunny 
has a sharp experience of to-day, for in the grim 
winter’s morning there come stealing along under 
the silent pines two men, with ferrets and nets and 
terriers, and wearing—horrible to a bunny’s eyes !— 
caps of rabbit’s skin upon their heads. These keep 
them warm while they kneel to insert the insidious 
ferret and spread the noiseless net; and so the rabbit, 
plunging in the fatal toils, bitterly reflects that its 
pelt will go to keep some other poacher from catch¬ 
ing a cold in his head:— 

l; So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 

Views its own feathers on the fatal dart 
That winged the shaft that quivers in its heart.’’ 

It would, indeed, be a grand day for the rabbits 
if they could romp about the Sussex sand dunes in 
the bigness of their extinct kinsmen, and the squirrels, 
scorning their hoards of rattling acorns, put on the 
hide of the woolly rhinoceros, and swag-oner down 
the Severn Valley rooting for wurzels. But it is 
idle for these small things in fur to build such 

monstrous castles in the air. The time, no doubt, 
has been, and if recent winters were often re¬ 
peated might even be again; but this cannot be in 
our day. An Arctic England is within the range 
of the possible, and polar bears may yet again g-o 
some day floating- along on glaciers through the 
Essex weald, and the Prince of Wales’s wild cattle 
behemothise under glacial conditions until they re¬ 
vert to the proportions of auroeh and urus. I 
have no wish to make fun of such a serious thing 
as Palaeolithic man or so reverend a phenomenon as 
the precession of the equinoxes. But it would really 
require very little change in the latter to bring 
back the circumstances under which the former 
slung flints at the mastodon, and was trampled into 
fossils for his audacity. Who can say that we shall 
not wake up some day to hear that in consequence 
of “unprecedented frost” off the Hebrides the Gulf- 
stream had got chilled, and that the North Pole was 
bearing steadily down on Edinburgh, with a some¬ 
thing on an iceberg that looked like a mammoth ? 
We should all be put out, for the fact would be 
extraordinary. But Professor Owen would not be in 
the least astonished. The conditions, he would see at 
once, were admirably adapted for the presence of ice¬ 
bergs in Prince’s Street; and as for the mammoth, 
what else could you expect in a glacial age ? And 
supposing the ice-drift to follow its natural course 
southwards, there would be nothing, except Muswell 
Hill, to prevent Pall Mall from becoming a frozen 
strait of broken floe in which the pulsations of ebb 
and tide of a distant ocean should perpetually keep 
the ice fragments grinding and washing together; 
to the great detriment and danger of the expedi¬ 
tions that Africa would no doubt fit out to search 
for relies of the Lord Mayor of London. 

But this is unseasonable melancholy; for, after all, 
our English winter is a season for the cultivation of 
only the most cheerful sentiments. This is a con¬ 
fession, no doubt, that something is needed to 
counteract cheerless Nature, yet Winter itself pro¬ 
vides the comfort for us. There is a charm in the 
homestead then which vanishes in the spring. The 
home-bound toiler crunches beneath his feet the 
crisp rubbish of the farmyard upon which the even¬ 
ing frost has already seized, and leaves behind him 
for the night the swept snow-heaps upon each side 
the path and the icicle-hung eaves. As he steps over 
the threshold out of the bleak and desolate twilight, 
home seems a palace of comfort and warmth. In 
the old chimney-corner there is a blaze of flicker¬ 
ing logs prepared for his return, and never has the 
glow and shelter seemed to him so grateful as when 
he closes the door upon the first aimless crystals of 
the gathering snowstorm. V ith what tenderness it 
will settle, flake by flake, upon the farmhouse roof, the 



glebe land that stretches down to the river, and even, 
where it may, upon the ice-bound river itself ! We 
might think it the gentlest thing in Nature. It falls 
so softly that the snipe, dibbling for worms at the 
water’s edge, hardly heeds it, and up on the common 
yonder the wild upland receives the gracious op¬ 
pressor without a murmur of complaint. Yet, one 
by one, the familiar outlines of the landscape are 
smothered out, and—except for the tall poplar, whose 
boughs refuse to hold the treacherous crystals, and 
whereon the robin still finds an unencumbered 
perch—all is muffled, wrapped, and buried in the 
cruel but dainty snow. Then, indeed, has man 
need of all his humanity; for the snow, though 
it falls softly, freezes hard, and winter lays a stem 
grip on the wrist of labour. Yet we never speak 
ill of the snow and ice; and it is well we should 
not. Art owes much to it, and human nature 
much more, for without Christmas charity 
Christmas weather would be sad indeed. 

At night, above all, when the world, 
whether it has work to do or not, shares 
in a specious semblance of repose, when the 
frozen birds are out of sight, and the whole 
country-side seems happier asleep under the 
guardianship of the clear white moon, our 
winter is beautiful indeed; and the church 
bells, ringing in the day of rest, seem sweetly 
in sympathy with the restful snow. 

Far away there are those whose wishes of 
the season are now crossing our own on the 
road; and to these, in spite of Decembers all 
flowers and Januaries all sun, there clings a 
memory of the snow-clad country-side and the 

ice-bound ponds that made Christmas cheery and 
New Year bright. And with the gaudy convol¬ 
vuluses climbing over his porch, and the notes of 
nesting birds in his ear, the sun-tanned colonist at 
the Antipodes can send back a thought to the old 
country, where, in spite of the snow that lies so thick 
out of doors, in spite of the icicles that fringe the 
thatch, there is cosiness and warmth and Christmas 
good-will. And to whom do we owe all these but 
to Jack Frost? Phil. Robinson. 



T HE artistic interest of 1881 appears, on retro¬ 
spection, to have been mainly one of buying 
and selling. It has been a year, not of great pictures, 
but of high prices. Thus, from Paris, we hear of a 
superb example of the art of Theodore Rousseau—- 
“le grand Refuse,” as he was called—“ Le Marais 
dans les Landes,” being bought for the Louvre for 
120,000 francs.. For Millet'’s pictures, collectors have 
bid yet higher. “ Le Greffeur, one of his earliest 
great works, brought 130,000 francs; while the 
“ Angelos ” (originally sold for 2,000 francs) realised 
160,000 francs at the Wilson sale, sold a few days 
afterwards for 200,000 francs, and was bid for in 
vain at 250,000 francs. In London some excitement 
in the picture-market was created by the sudden 
appearance of a certain “ Mr. Thomas,” a mysterious 
stranger, who, without word of warning, possessed 
himself of Landseer’s “ Man Proposes—God Disjaoses ” 
at a cost of £6,300; of Mr. Millais’ not very remark¬ 
able picture, “ The Princes in the Tower ”—a kind 
of latter-day Delaroche, so to speak—at a cost of 
£3,990 ; and of important works by St infield, Muller, 
and others at prices hardly less splendid and extra¬ 
ordinary. It is now known that Mr. Thomas and 
Professor Holloway are identical, and that the pic¬ 
tures in question were bought to furnish the gallery 
of this gentleman’s magnificent foundation. Another 
famous sale was that of Mr. Millais’ inexpressive and 
uninteresting portrait-sketch of the Earl of Beaeons- 
field for £2,000. Among etchings the palm for 
cost 1 incss belongs to the unique (and disputable) 
Vandyck, which was the gem of the Bale collection. 
For this singular prize an agent of the French 
Rothschilds did battle with the representative of the 
British Museum, and secured it for some £150. 

In this connection it is worthy of note that 
Courbet’s masterpiece, the famous “ Enterrement 
d’Ornans,” one of the strongest, most surprising 
achievements of modern art, has been going 
a-begging in France at 100,000 francs; and that 
in England a representative work by J.-F. Millet, 
“ Le Semeur,” a picture in some sort superior to 
the “ Angelus ” itself, has been offered for £5,000 
sterling, and offered in vain. Courbet’s magnificent 
“ Portrait of the Painter,” an early work, not much, 
if at all, inferior to the greater portraitures of 
Velasquez, was on sale here for £500, and shared 
the fate of the “Semeur” and the “Enterrement 
d’Ornans.” It may he noted, in passing, that the 
English national collections do not contain a single 
example of Delacroix, Ingres, Millet, Corot, Rousseau, 

Diaz, Fortuny, Regnault, Barye, or Courbet; and 
that it appears to be a rule with those in authority 
only to pay high prices for suspicious Old Masters. 

The most interesting of the exhibitions was that 
selected from the works of Mr. Millais. It included, 
at one time and another, the famous “North-West 
Passage; ” the beautiful and affecting “ Vale of 
Rest; ” the “ Boyhood of Raleigh ; ” the over-praised 
and over-written “ Chill October; ” “ Cherry Ripe ; ” 
the portrait of Mr. Tennyson; the popular “ Order of 
Release;” the celebrated “Yeoman of the Guard;” 
the “ Gambler’s V ife ; ” the charming little “ Wood¬ 
man’s Daughter.” Perhaps most interesting of all, 
quaintly and exquisitely innocent in manner and 
feeling and execution, were those relics of a time 
when Pre-Raphaelitism was a religion, and lluskiu 
was its prophet—the “ Isabella ” and the “ Car¬ 
penter’s Shop” of thirty years ago. It may be 
noted that Mr. Millais’ work, remarkable as it is, 
seemed less powerful and attractive with none but 
itself to be its parallel, than it seems at Burlington 
House, with the work of the average Academician 
to enhance its attractiveness and double its power. 
At the Graphic Gallery the best picture was pro¬ 
bably the “Type of Female Beauty” contributed by 
M. Carolus Duran : a dashing and able piece of por¬ 
traiture, brilliant and imaginative in colour, bold 
and dexterous in handling, cheap in sentiment, and 
seductive in effect. In the same way Herr Lembach’s 
austere and vigorous portraits of Prince Bismarck 
and Count von Moltke—in principle and effect 
much like the work of Professor Legros—were far 
ahead of all the contemporary work shown with 
them at the French Gallery in Pall Mall. As 
regards the first exhibition of the newly-constituted 
Society of Painter-Etchers, the artistic interest of 
the thing appears to have centred in the contribu¬ 
tions of Messrs. Legros (“ By the River,” the 
“ Rocky Landscape,” the “ Death and the Wood¬ 
man,” and so forth), Hunter, Watts (a single 
example), and Hook; and after these in the works 
exhibited by Messrs. Tissot, Iladen, Langon, Bacher, 
Duveneck, George, and Bradley. 

The average quality of the exhibition of the Royal 
Academy was better and higher than it has been 
for some years. From the Grosvenor Gallery Mr. 
Burne-Jones was unhappily absent, and the gather¬ 
ing, though in many ways remarkable, was not so 
interesting as it might have been. Of the “Salon 
Londres”—notable for its Bonnat, its Vollons, and 
its Ilenners—it is not necessary now to speak. 



- *<r>4 - 

I P to come of an artistic stock were to command school of art which numbered amongst its students 
artistic success, Mr. Burgess's popularity were a certain lad whose name was destined to become 
easily explicable on other grounds than those of merit perhaps the brightest in the roll of British painters. 


(From the Picture by J. B. Burgess, A.R.A.) 

and accomplishment. He has a highly-respectable 
painter's lineage, for his immediate ancestors were 
all hidalgos of the palette. His is a congenital 
talent; and he may be cited as a living argument 
in proof of the theory of heredity. 

About the middle of the eighteenth century there 
existed in Maiden Lane, Strand, an academy or 

He was called Thomas Gainsborough, and he received 
the foundation of that artistic education which was to 
make him world-famous at the hands of one Thomas 
Burgess, who presided over the school. This Thomas 
Burgess was the great-grandfather of the subject of 
this memoir; but the hereditary “ transmission of a 
genius for art," so evident in this case, was not to 



] 34 

be broken by a single link, for tlie son of Thomas 
Burgess, named William, became distinguished as a 
portrait-painter, in proof whereof a work of his 
elicited much commendation and inquiry a year or 
two ago at an exhibition of Old Masters at Bur¬ 
lington House. William in his turn had a son 
whose initials were H. W., and H. W. Burgess, the 
father of the present John, held the post of land¬ 
scape-painter to King William IV. Other members 
of this gifted family likewise exemplified the general 
tendency, inasmuch as there was another Thomas 
Burgess, a landscape-painter of great promise, who 
died very young in 1807, whilst Leamiugton, until 
very recently, claimed as one of its notables an 
eminent water-colour flower-painter uamed John Cart 
Burgess. That a descendant from such a stock should 
have early manifested the spirit within him, and that 
he should in due time have attained a conspicuous 
place in the front rank of the artistic profession, is 
therefore not surprising. 

John Bagnold Burgess was born on the 21st of 
October, 1830, at Chelsea, and, like so many of his 
contemporaries, commenced his actual training in art 
at Air. Leigh’s academy in Newman Street, in 1848. 
Thence to the Royal Academy there was hut one 
step, he being' admitted there as a student in 1850. 
Aluch credit is due to him for the persevering manner 
in which he pushed forward towards his goal during 
his early life; for he had the misfortune, when only 
ten, to be deprived by death of the guidance of his 
accomplished father, and in those days the ready 
means now to be found for carrying on the study 
of art did not exist. A youngster had to train him¬ 
self as best he could, feeling his way amongst the 
antiques at the British Museum, or drawing from 
casts in his own home; and much valuable time was 
wasted for the want of a little discriminating direc¬ 
tion from a master. To some extent young Burgess 
found this at the hands of Sir William Ross, the 
miniature-painter, who undertook, as an intimate 
friend of his father, to look after the boy’s art-educa¬ 
tion. Still, the help which he received was trifling 
until he entered Leigh’s school; and he says that 
he was astonished, when he at last got into the life 
school of the Academy, to find that he knew so much 
as he did, and that he was able with but little exer¬ 
tion to distinguish himself by carrying off the medal 
of the first class awarded in that institution for draw¬ 
ing from the life. His efforts to establish himself on an 
independent footing were begun by painting portraits, 
hut his poetic and imaginative nature soon began to 
resent the trammels of such comparatively prosaic 
work. An artist capable of thinking out and bringing 
to a successful issue such pictures as those by which 
Air. Burgess has made his reputation, was not likely 
to be contented with the mere portrayal of modern 

ladies and gentlemen, albeit he gained doubtless much, 
mastery over the brush by its exercise in that direction. 
Taking advantage of certain family connections resid¬ 
ing in Seville, he very soon went off to Spain ; and 
had it not been for the tendency of the British public 
to associate certain artists with certain countries or 
classes of subjects, and to look upon others who may 
venture upon the same ground as pirates and poachers, 
there can be little reason why J. B. Burgess should 
not have become some time since as celebrated for 
bis interpretations of Spanish life and character as 
was the late John Phillip. For be it remembered, 
although he goes chiefly to the Peninsula for his 
themes and inspirations, he in nowise follows in 
the footsteps of his elder and renowned predecessor. 
Beyond the fact that he paints Spaniards, his work 
no more clashes with that of John Phillip than the 
pictures of Webster or Faed, for example, clash with 
those of Wilkie, and it is surely rather hard upon 
an artist that he should have to live down a certain 
amount of prejudice against his work simply because 
some one lias treated similar subjects previously. But 
we would say, pursuing this question a little further, 
except that their models are Spanish, the subjects 
which Air. Bui’gess paints are not similar to those of 
Phillip. The latter by pi’eference portrayed the gay, 
guitar-twanging, castanet-playing, bolero-dancing, 
carnival-keeping, cigarette-smoking life of Seville, 
rather than that of the rough, ragged, dirty, sheep¬ 
skin-clad, parched-up peasantry, gipsies, and contra- 
bandistas of the Sierra Morena, with the surroundings 
of the low venta and posada, such as John B. Bur¬ 
gess chiefly delights in. Not, however, to continue 
the comparison, there has been, for any time these 
fifteen years past, enough and to spare of individuality 
and originality in his work to have warranted much 
earlier than he received it the award of an Associate- 
ship in the Royal Academy. So long ago as 1865 
he established himself in the estimation of the public, 
as well as in the opinion of the best judges, as a 
painter of no mean power, by the exhibition of a pic¬ 
ture at the Royal Academy which, from its nature, has 
been hard for him to surpass, it is not often that 
an artist can hit upon a subject that lends itself so 
entirely to pictorial treatment as did that of “ Bravo 
Toro.” To describe it or dwell on it here would be 
gratuitous, well known and associated as the work 
is with the name of Burgess. Full of beaut 3 r and 
fine in colour, powerful in drawing, expression, and 
execution, it deservedly claimed, and has retained, a 
large meed of public favour; and if its painter has 
not always seemed to keep up to the high standard 
of excellence which it promised, the shortcoming may 
readily be attributed, as we have said, to the fact that 
equally telling subjects are not easy to find. If those, 
upon Dr. Johnson’s principle, who paint the manners. 



tone, and temper of Spain with the veracity which 
is conspicuous in this artist, should themselves be 
Spanish in feeling and character, then assuredly Mr. 
Burgess is by right the very man for the work. One 
can trace through his frank, firm, yet tender English 
manner, and the excellence of his technique, which, if 
not of the most forcible, is decidedly above the English 
average, that vein of languid, graceful, semi-sensuous 
indolence—that postponing till to-morrow {kasta 
manana) kind of sentiment—which is so marked an 
element of the Spanish nature. It may be that 
something of this tendency accounts for the com¬ 
paratively few large compositions which our limner 
produces. He works with industry, lovingly, dili¬ 
gently, but deliberately, as though he were revelling 
in the calm, warm atmosphere which he depicts, and 
in the midst of which any great display of energy or 
intensity, to adopt a modern phrase, would be quite 
out of place. 

Going back over the public record of his work, 
we shall revert only to such of his canvases as have 
displayed the especial charms of his brash. ' Thus, 
whilst the many single heads and figures which he 
has exhibited since 1865 are all more or less choice 
specimens, the -really important works are scarcer 
until we come down to somewhat recent dates. Still, 
in 1866 “The Favourite Padre" might fairly have 
claimed for its painter more renown than it did, 
had it not been but just preceded by “Bravo Toro." 
This Spanish street-scene, where two priests, one fat 
and one lean, are receiving their salutations from, 
and distributing their blessings among, a group of 
their especial charges, was full of life and character, 
and displayed the keenest appreciation of all that is 
humorous, pathetic, and picturesque. The same may 
be said, far more emphatically, of “ Stolen by Gipsies," 
which in 1868 deservedly attracted great attention. 
An able review said of it :— !! It is unusually interest¬ 
ing from the strong appeal it makes to the sym¬ 
pathy of the spectator—-an appeal sustained by great 
power of expression. At a low Spanish inn, a haunt 
of gipsies and thieves, a pretty little girl, who has 
been stolen from some respectable family, is receiving 
or undergoing a lesson in dancing and in the use of 
the tambourine. The trouble in the poor child's face, 
and the keen repulsive raillery on the countenance of 
one of the two men who are teaching her, as well as 
the compassionate look of a gipsy woman who has a 
child of her own and feels for this lonely little girl, 
are as good studies of expression as anything in this 
year's Academy. The two old men who are playing 
at cards, and the gendarmes just entering upon the 
scene, as yet unperceived, are as life-like in their 
way, though less powerfully dramatic. Mr. Burgess 
is very merciful to the spectator in introducing the 
messengers of justice on the staircase. It would have 

been too painful to think tliat such a nice little girl 
should have to pass her whole life in the company of 
these vagabonds, and we feel much satisfaction in the 
thought that she is just going to be released and 
restored to her anxious friends, whilst her captors 
will come within the grasp of the law." 

Making good use of the troublous times on which 
he fell during a visit to Spain in 1869, our artist gave 
us the following year a highly dramatic, picturesque, 
and telling reproduction of one of their many episodes. 
The scene was the interior of a church into which, 
during an entente in the streets, some of the wounded 
were being carried for treatment; the picture was full 
of pathetic and stirring interest. In a very different 
key was the work by which Mr. Burgess was repre¬ 
sented in 1871, bringing as it did into view an 
entirely new phase of his powers. Reace and domes¬ 
ticity succeeded turmoil and revolution, and we had 
in “ A Visit to the Nursery " as healthy and strong 
a bit of English home-life and sentiment as ever 
graced Academy walls. The delightful old Colonel 
Neweome-like grandpapa in his tops, buckskins, and 
pink, who is paying “a visit to the nursery," in 
company with the charming mamma, just before 
riding off to cover, should even after this lapse of 
time be remembered by all observant visitors to 
modern picture-shows. 

Unable, however, to remain long away from the 
land of his love, Mr. Burgess has continued since 
that year, almost without interruption, to exhibit 
none but Spanish or Moorish subjects. Thus in 1872 
“ Kissing Relics in Spain " was his principal picture, 
and in writing about it at tbe time an able critic 
says, after pronouncing it to be broad and luminous 
in treatment and composition, that u the artist, with 
rare good taste, has succeeded in eliminating every¬ 
thing of a repulsive nature from a degrading scene of 
superstition." In 1873 and 1874 we had evidence in 
“ The Rush for Water : Scene during the Ramadan in 
Morocco," and “ The Presentation : English Ladies 
Visiting a Moor's House," that the Straits of Gibraltar 
had been crossed for pictorial purposes; but in 1875 
there was an agreeable renewal of acquaintance with 
that quaintly humorous side of Spanish character in 
which the artist shows at his best. “ The Barber's 
Prodigy," like “ Stolen by Gipsies," was a really ex¬ 
cellent picture, and was thus described at the time:—- 
“The barber, who has left his customer, a stui’dy, 
rough-looking Spanish peasant, upon whom he has so 
far operated as to have well lathered his face with soap, 
is eagerly conversing with two priests and a gentle¬ 
man, to whom he is showing some sketches made by 
his son, a boy-artist who is kneeling upon the floor 
in the centre of the picture, with portfolio before 
him. The humorous element introduced in the expres¬ 
sion in the face of the indignant customer, left alone 

(From the Picture by J. It. Burgess, A.B.A.) 



ornamented as we have described, may be imagined. 
Mr. Burgess has supplied the requirement of beauty 
in the work in the barber’s daughter, a charming 
girl, who is an interested spectator in the scene.” 

The list of his works for the years 1876, 1877, 
1878, and 1879 includes “ Feliciana—a Spanish 
Gipsy,” “ Licensing the Beggars : Spain,” “ Child¬ 
hood in Eastern Life,” “ Zulina,” “ The Convent 
Garden,” and “ The Student in Disgrace : a Scene 
in the University of Salamanca.” Most of these 

is a striking little picture, Moorish as to its subject, 
and dramatic in intention and effect. The second, 
“ The Professor and his Pupil”—a very pleasant 
work—brings us back into Spain, the Spain of 
Lazarillo de Tormes and the Gran Tacano. The 
old gentleman has lost himself in the geographical 
lesson which in the days of Spain’s Colonial Empire 
formed so indispensable a part in the education of a 
young Spanish nobleman. He is peering upon the 
great globe as earnestly as if he were reading Peter 

will be fresh in the memory of our readers, espe¬ 
cially the last, which is quite one of the best of 
his many productions. The two or three pictures 
which have succeeded this on the walls of Burling¬ 
ton House—-viz., “The Professor and his Pupil” 
(1880), and “The Genius of the Family,” “Ethel,” 
and “Guarding the Hostages” (1881)—if they were 
not quite equal in all respects to “ The Student 
in Disgrace,” were excellent in their several ways. 
Of two of these we give illustrations. The first, 
“ Guarding the Hostages,” may be compared with 
the “ Rush for Water” and the “Presentation.” It 

Martyr and discoursing of the Admiral himself, or 
mapping out the victories of the mighty Marques 
del Valle. His pupil—some dukeling, with a score 
of splendid names to his tail—has little stomach 
for learning of any sort. He lounges in the great 
leathern chair, and cuddles his favourite hound. He 
would much prefer to be out and away, with hawk 
on wrist and spur on heel, a-pacing the beach, and 
looking for the wondrous galley, and listening for 
the wondrous song he has read of in the ballad of 
Count Arnaldos. There are a great many English 
boys who will thoroughly agree with him. 



Atelier d’ Bleves ” is of 
spontaneous generation, 
and its establishment is 
a very simple matter. A suf¬ 
ficient number of enthusiastic 
students agree among them¬ 
selves in their admiration of 
some painter who has lately “ come 
to the front A and resolve to work 
under his guidance. A meeting is 
called, at which the necessary funds 
for payment of rent, models, and firing 
are subscribed, and then a deputation waits 
upon the chosen master, asking him to be¬ 
come the “ patron ” of their studio. The post 
is purely honorary. It is perfectly well understood 
that its acceptance by the popular painter means the 
giving up by him of several working hours weekly, 
and that his only return is the chance that amongst 
the number of his pupils a few will hereafter make a 
name for themselves, and so reflect lustre on his name; 
and yet such a thing as a refusal of a request of this 
sort is probably unknown in Paris. French artists of 
eminence are singularly liberal of their time in helping 
hard-working juniors in their craft. They never fail 
to remember the treatment they received themselves 
from their seniors when they were beginning to climb 
the difficult ladder of fame, and when they are 
arrives they are glad to pay back the debt to all 
who require their help. So, almost without introduc¬ 
tion, an art-student who, after a reasonable hour in 
the afternoon, brings his work to submit to any artist 
of distinction, is sure of a kind and courteous reception; 
and if he has talent he may expect that the great man 
will afterwards even take the trouble from time to 
time to mount up to his studio, au 5 emc , to help and 
encourage him in his work. 

The Atelier-Bonn at was started in 1865, with the 
wholesome purpose of studying nature as closely as 
possible, avoiding on the one hand the vagueness of 
the impressionists, and on the other the convention¬ 
alism of the academical style of work, upon which the 
followers of Bonnat look with undisguised contempt. 
The usual way of gaining admission to the studio 
is to call on M. Bonnat with one or two speci¬ 
mens of work, and ask permission to attend his 
“Atelier d'’Eleves,” and then to go straight to the 
studio, which is situated in the Impasse Helene in 
the Avenue Clichy, not very far from Montmartre, 
and present oneself to the massier, and pay one’s 
subscription and entrance fee. The entrance fee 

used to be 25 francs, and the yearly subscription 360 
francs, payable monthly; but it was the rule to pay the 
subscription for the last three months with that for the 
first month, so as to give the studio some hold upon a 
slippery student. Foreigners who could not spend a 
whole year in Paris were permitted to work as visitors 
at the monthly subscription of 25 francs, which gave 
them not only “ le droit de travail ler,” as the “ltegle- 
ment ” phrases it, but also a voice in the choice of 
models and pose. 

The nominal hour of bearinnino- work is seven 
o’clock a.m. in the summer and eight a.m. in the 
winter months ; but, as a matter of fact, work begins 
half an hour later at each season, and the sitting is of 
four hours’ duration, exclusive of intervals of rest for 
the models. A fresh model is posed every Monday 
morning, when there is a good muster of students, 
who choose their places for the week in the order in 
which they inscribe their names in a book as they 
come in. It is usual to ask the model to suggest 
several poses that he (or she) thinks he can keep 
without over-fatigue, and then, if neither of these 
is approved of, or if, as often happens, the model is 
stupid, one or more of the students arranges a pose, 
which has in any case to be approved by a fair majority 
of votes before it is definitely decided on. By the time 
the pose is chosen, the first hour is generally gone, 
and the necessary chalk-marks having been made 
round the model’s feet, &c., so that he may be able 
to find the exact position again, the regular “ ten 
minutes’ rest” is called, after which, according to the 
rules, no change can be made in the pose for the rest 
of the week. 

Dirty and most disorderly is the first impres¬ 
sion that the studio makes upon the stranger, who, 
passing from the aforesaid Impasse Helene, lifts the 
latch of the heavy door and finds himself in a lofty 
room, rather more than thirty feet square, lighted by 
one great window, the bottom of which is eight feet 
from the floor. In front of him, against the wall, 
on a big model-table, at right angles to the window 
and close to the stove, stands the nude model, and 
in widening semicircles, facing the table, are ranged 
rows of easels and strong straw-covered stools or 
tabourets. The front stools and easels are very low, 
and the students who work at them make studies 
of the head only, being much too near the model to 
be able to see the figure as a whole. The students 
behind these sit on stools about the height of an 
average chair; those behind these again on stools so 
high that they can stand or lean against them at will; 



and those farthest away from the model use generally 
larger canvases, and more often than not stand to 
their work. 

The walls of the studio are painted a reddish- 
brown, so that too much light may not be reflected 
back on the model to weaken the force of the 
shadows; but in many places the monotony of the 
wall surface is broken by dabs and smears of paint, 
showing what a convenient receptacle a wall is for 
the scrapings of one's palette. Hung on a frame 
close to the model-table is a large piece of grey 
tapestry that sometimes forms the background 
to the study, but is more often drawn back, so 
that the luminous flesh is seen in bold relief 
against the flat surface of dark neutral grey. There 
is a set of hollow wooden cubes, or boxes, of 
various sizes, that serve as seats or supports to the 
model in certain poses, and a mattress covered with 
dark gi’een toile-ciree which is used for reclining 
postures. Against the wall, round two sides of the 
studio, are racks to hold canvases, di’awing-boards, 
and portfolios, and on shelves above these a few 
soiled and broken plaster casts. The rest of the 
“furniture" consists of a clock of the commonest 
description; of a cast-iron stove (with its attendant 
coke-box) surmounted by a basin of steaming 
water, to keep the atmosphere from becoming in¬ 
sufferably dry; of a metal fontaine filled daily 
with water, by the side of which stands an earthen¬ 
ware pan and a pipkin of soft black soap, used for 
washing brushes; and of a rickety little table, in 
a drawer of which is kept a book of addresses of 
models and pupils, and over which hangs the 
“ Reglement " containing the ten very simple rules 
that regulate the conduct of the studio. At the 
end of one of the rows of students, hanging on 
his stand, or huddled unceremoniously into the 
corner among a litter of broken easels, is the 
skeleton, who is looked upon quite en camarade, 
and of whom the legend runs that “ once upon a 
time he was a student who never paid his sub¬ 
scription." On one of the walls hang two clever 
studies from the nude, painted by M. de Koninck, 
the friend and fellow-student of M. Bonnat, who 
used to come in his stead whenever the latter was 
absent from Paris, and concerning whom our 
“ patron" used modestly to say, “ Listen well to 
what he tells you; he's much more clever than 
I am." 

Modesty, energy, and straightforward frankness 
are indeed our “ patron's " chief characteristics. In 
person he is not tall, but well-built and muscular, 
with a firm step, clear, earnest eyes, and features 
rather of the Spanish than the French type. His 
method of teaching is as simple and decided as his 
appearance. We were left entirely to our own devices 

during the first day of the week; on the second the 
“ patron " came round to see how we had blocked-in 
our studies, and again on the last to see what we had 
made of them. His plan was to leave each pupil 
absolutely free to follow his own inclinations in all 
matters pertaining to choice of subject, method of 
work, and materials; and whether we did a study of 
a head, a half-length, or an entire figure, whether we 
worked in charcoal, in red or black chalk, or in colour, 
was all the same to him, so long as he thought we 
were doing our best. His attention was always 
directed to the study as a whole, and he was a cheery 
and encouraging critic—always praising when he 
conscientiously could, but always telling us very 
decidedly what was bad in our work. So unosten¬ 
tatiously did he enter, that often only those near 
the door, who saw him come in, knew he was in 
the studio, unless they guessed it from the sudden 
subsidence of the usual hubbub, or heard the whisper 
passed round, “ Le patron y est! " Once in, he went 
straight at his work of criticism and correction, of 
which each pupil got on an average four or five 
minutes at each visit. When one's turn came, one 
would suddenly hear over one’s shoulder, in rapid and 
rather staccato utterance, some such phrase as this : 
“ That’s not bad; but . . . you must look at the 

figure more as a whole;" and then he would point 
out the faults of proportion which prevented the 
ensemble, the “ swabble," from being good. He was 
very particular that the gesture of the figure should 
be true, and that the type and character of face and 
form should be emphasised, even if ugly in nature. 
He always seemed in earnest in what he said; and so 
it may be imagined how glad one was to hear him 
say, as if he meant it, “The figure, as a whole, is 
very good;" or, “The likeness is capital;" or, “The 
action of the figure is very well rendered;" or even 
now and then, “ That's a good study." If ever he 
did give thus much praise he seemed never to forget 
it, and was sure, weeks afterwards, if one's work fell 
off in essentials, to bring it up in judgment against 
one, saying, “You can do better than that." Unless 
exceptionally good or bad, he took scarcely any notice 
of details, wishing his pupils to devote all their 
energy to get their studies of form right as a whole, 
and always impressing upon us that as soon as we 
could do that, we should have but little trouble in 
mastering any subordinate difficulties. He troubled 
himself very little about technical processes as long 
as they conveyed true statements of pose, form, and 
colour; but if one was working in a manner he 
approved of, he would say, “ That's a good method of 
work or, “ You are working in the right direc¬ 

tion." He never touched a student's work, but if 
he saw any one struggling over some manipulative 
difficulty, he would say, “Ask, then, so-and-so how 



to do that during the next rest;” or if any sufficiently 
advanced student happened to be within reach, he 
would say, “Show him, then, how to do that.” His 
idea was that students should learn their craft from 
one another, and each find out by actual experiment, 
and, if necessary, by failure, the method of working- 
most suitable to himself. The “ patron's ” visits 

lasted from an hour to an hour and a half, according 
to the number of students, and then, with a simple 
“Bon jour, Messieurs!” on his part, as he reached 
the door, and a general rising on ours, he was 
gone; the pipes and cigarettes that had been allowed 
to go out were re-lighted, and tongues wagged louder 
than ever. Barclay Day. 

would have much to tell. No rise of manufactories, 
no influx of population, has destroyed its testimony 
to past days : it still nestles round the castle as it 
did of old; its streets still keep their ancient names, 
Bondgate, Bailiffgate, and the like; it still retains 
an irregular and spacious market-place, to which all 
its streets converge, and where its business is trans¬ 
acted. The traveller who approaches it by rail enters 
the town through the outer gateway of the Bond- 
gate Tower which once defended the city wall. It 
is a massive structure, three storeys high, and dates 
from the middle of the fifteenth century. Semi- 
octagonal towers project on each side of the gateway, 
with narrow windows whence the defenders might 
take sure aim at their assailants; and on the top is 
a platform for more deadly engines of war. It is 
the sole survivor of four brethren which guarded the 
approaches to the town; but the citizens of Aln¬ 
wick were proud of their towers, and at the end of 
the last century an architectural revival led to the 
erection of Pottergate Tower, built in the approved 
style of the day, on the site of the old tower which 
had been removed. It looks quaint enough as it 
surmounts the street which climbs up eastwards 
towards the bleak moorland, where still the burgesses 
of Alnwick possess their ancient rights of common. 

I T is but natural that we should find in the Land 
of the Border the most imposing survivals of 
the Middle Ages, and that historic associations 
should have so far px-evailed as to preserve in a 
modern palace the outward semblance of a feudal 
castle. The whole history of the Percy family is so 
closely connected with the dreary story of Border 
warfare that there is a local fitness, such as scarcely 
exists elsewhex-e in England, in the martial semblance 
still worn by their stately dwelling. The aspect of 
Alnwick Castle, as it rises proudly on a height 
above the little river of the Alne, with the town 
clustering round it for protection, tells at once the tale 
of the beginnings of civilisation in that rude district 
where life was for so many centuries precarious, and 
order and secui’ity were only won by the sword. 

To one who has a seeing eye for reading the 
local l’ecords of the past, the little town of Alnwick 




Beyond the town lies the castle, girt 
round by a lofty wall strengthened at 
intervals by towers. It is the work of 
many ages of warriors, but owes its origin 
to the organising force wherewith the 
Norman barons welded England into a 
powerful nation. It was not, however, 
immediately after the Conquest that the 
desolate Border-land claimed their care; 
the Domesday survey found no material 
in the northern counties. But William 
the Conqueror built a castle at Durham; 
and Newcastle, Carlisle, and Norham-on- 
the-Tweed were fortified within the next 
half-century. The barony of Alnwick was 
given to Yvo de Yesey, and before 1135 
the keen eye of the Norman baron had 
sought out a spot, such as he was familiar 
with in his own land, and on it he built 
a castle after the model that he knew so 
well. A massive keep formed the resi¬ 
dence and defence of himself and his 
family and his chief knights; round it 
was a strongly-walled enclosure, protected 
by towers, with an area of five acres in 
which the troops could encamp in time 
of need, and where at all times there was 
space for military exercises. 

Of this original castle there are now 
but scanty remains, although the present 



building retains the general plan of its more an¬ 
cient predecessor. The Norman archway of the keep 
still stands, and forms a picturesque approach to the 
inner courtyard. It is ornamented with the rich 
zigzag mouldings which characterise the later Nor¬ 
man work, and close to it is the draw-well which 
was so necessary in the days when every building 
must perforce be self-contained. 

The castle -of Alnwick soon became an impor¬ 
tant place in Border history; and it was while he 
was engaged in the siege of Alnwick that William 
the Lion, King of Scotland, was made prisoner by 
Ranulf Gflanvil, in 1174. His capture foiled the 
plans of Henry II."’s enemies, who had raised their 
heads against him after the murder of Becket. The 
Yeseys prospered, and held no fewer than sixty 
baronies in Northumberland; but the vast posses¬ 
sions were easily won and easily lost. William de 




Vesey died in 1297 without legitimate issue, and 
left his lands to the Prince Bishop of Durham, 
Antony Bek, in trust for a natural son who was not 
yet of age. But Bek quarrelled with his ward, and 
did not scruple to sell the lands he held in trust 
to the powerful baron Henry de Percy, in 1309. 

towers to the line of the wall, and erected a second 
gate-house in the middle of the enclosure, so as to 
add to the defences of the keep. Moreover, he is 
said to have placed on the parapets of the towers 
stone figures of soldiers in martial attitudes, so as 
to suggest to Scottish scouts that the walls were 


Edward II. had not the power, if he had had the 
will, to interfere with the doings of so mighty a man 
as Bek. The Percys were a Norman family, who 
had large lands on the Borders, which passed by 
marriage to the Lovaines, who, however, took the 
Percy name. 

Henry Percy found Alnwick Castle in a ruinous 
condition, and rebuilt much of the keep; moreover, 
he strengthened the wall which surrounded it. tie 
built the gate-house and barbican to guard it, added 

manned and their attack expected. Quaint figures, 
after the ancient models, still adorn the outer walls 
of the castle; and childish as the expedient may seem 
to us, many who saw the walls covered with work¬ 
men assert that it was impossible from below to dis¬ 
tinguish the real men from their stone semblances. 

In their new abode the Percys lived and pros¬ 
pered. The second baron received from Edward III., 
in 1328, the castle of Warkworth in payment for his 
services in defence of the Border; and the third baron 



was created Earl of Northumberland at Richard II.'s 
coronation, in 1377. In his days occurred the Bor¬ 
der raid which is celebrated in the ballad of 
“Chevy Chase/'’ which stirred Sir Philip Sidney's 
heart “like the sound of a trumpet.” The more 
historic doings of the Earl and his son Hotspur led 
to the confiscation of the Percy estates; but these 
were soon restored to Hotspur's son, and his suc¬ 
cessor continued to lay field to field till he fell 
fighting on the Lancastrian side in 1461, and the 
earldom was given to John Neville, Lord Montague. 
But Edward IY. soon quarrelled with the Nevilles, 
and Henry Percy was restored to his father's pos¬ 
sessions in 1469. On the death of the sixth Earl, 
without issue, in 1537, the Percy name was again 
in abeyance, till Queen Mary created his nephew, 
who was a Roman Catholic, Earl of Northumberland 
in 1557. His dealings with Mary Queen of Scots 
need not be chronicled; but when he died on the 
scaffold his estates went to a more orthodox brother, 
and so passed on till, in 1670, the last of the 
Lovaine-Percys died, leaving only an infant daugh¬ 
ter four years old. 

Such was the desire for the Percy lands that this 
heiress at the age of fifteen married, as her third 
husband, Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, the 
“ Proud Duke/' as he was called, who boasted that 
his wife, though a Percy, never ventured to tap him 
on the shoulder. But the union of the houses of 
Percy and Seymour lasted only for two genera¬ 
tions ; and in 1740 the marriage of Lady Elizabeth 
Seymour with Sir Hugh Smithson founded the 
family which now bears the 
Percy name. 

During this changeful 
period Alnwick Castle had 
been forgotten and had sunk 
into ruins; so neglected was 
it that in 1691 a school was 
kept within its walls. But 
the first Smithson Duke 
turned his attention to his 
Northumbrian possessions. 

For some time he doubted 
.whether to make Warkworth 
or Alnwick his seat, but the 
associations of Alnwick de¬ 
termined him in its favour. 

At the end of the last cen¬ 
tury Alnwick Castle was re¬ 
stored, with the usual results 
of restoration. The outer 
wall and its towers were re¬ 
built so as to retain their 
mediaeval appearance, the 
stone figures on the towers 

were multiplied, and the external look of a feudal 
castle was given to the pile of buildings. The inner 
portions were entirely altered, and the keep was con¬ 
verted into a commodious dwelling; the moats were 
filled ; the isolated buildings were removed, and the ad¬ 
jacent towers were made part of the central keep. The 
outward look was in some measure retained, but all 
that was most characteristic of the inner arrange¬ 
ments was entirely swept away. Large rooms, such 
as befitted a nobleman’s dwelling, were laid out inside 
the renovated shell, and were adorned with plaster 
mouldings and Gothic tracery of the most elaborate 
kind. So Alnwick Castle remained till the fourth 
Duke, Algernon, a scholar, an archaeologist, and a man 
of taste and munificence, resolved on turning it into 
an architectural memorial of his magnificent ideas. 

The scheme of Duke Algernon was to carry out 
boldly and decidedly the plan which Duke Hugh 
had imperfectly conceived. He wished to preserve 
and emphasise the mediaeval character of the exterior 
of the castle, and at the same time to convert it 
internally into a magnificent palace. Much of the 
work of the last century had to be removed, and the 
central pile was rendered more dignified and imposing 
by the erection of a lofty tower in the middle which 
gave harmony to its proportions. At the same time 
all the alterations made by Duke Hugh which were 
not in keeping with the Edwardian architecture were 
removed and replaced by work carefully finished in 
detail. But while Duke Algernon thus paid his 
tribute of respect to the historic associations of the 
place, he resolved that its internal arrangement and 




decoration should be in accordance with his own 
liking. In this he was amply justified. It may he 
desirable to live in a mediaeval castle, hut it is clearly 
impossible to carry on modern social life in mediaeval 
rooms. Duke Algernon preferred the surroundings 
of an Italian palazzo, and he resolved to adapt dex¬ 
terously the interior of his castle to the best models 
of the Renaissance style of decoration. For this 
purpose he called to his aid the eminent Roman 
antiquary the Commendatore Canina, and the Roman 
architect Signor Montiroli; with their advice, and 
that of the Englishmen Cockerell and Donaldson, his 
plans were made in 1854, and were accomplished at a 
cost of £300,000. 

With this sketch of the history of Alnwick 
Castle we may now represent to ourselves the 

impressions of a visit to it. In a large square just 
beyond the populous part of the town of Alnwick stands 
the castle gateway, with its threatening towers still 
adorned with the figures of mediaeval warriors. It 
now serves the peaceful purpose of a porter’s lodge, 
and its vaulted archway is still guarded by the 
barbican. When this is passed, we are in a spacious 
court surrounded by a wall that is strengthened at 
intervals by towers. The barbican is now a nest of 
servants’ bedrooms; another tower is converted into 
a museum of British and Roman antiquities. The 
Constable’s Tower is left, as near as may be, in its 
original condition/and is now used as an armoury. 
The Record Tower contains a collection of Egyptian 
antiquities made by Duke Algernon. A portion of 
the wall that occupies the site of a ruined tower still 
bears the suggestive name of 
the Bloody Gap. From the outer 
courtyard the road leads through 
the middle gate-house into the 
second court, where an equal 
space of walls and towers again 
meets the eye. Another gateway 
leads into the inner court, which 
is entered through the old Nor¬ 
man gate, with its arcaded draw- 
well, telling of times long past. 
Then the keep is immediately in 
front, surmounted by the Prud- 
hoe Tower, on which floats the 
Percy flag. On all sides are the 
pile of buildings which supple¬ 
ment the keep and form a com¬ 
modious residence. 

A porch large enough to 
admit a carriage under cover 
leads to the doorway. The en¬ 
trance-hall is treated simply, so 
that the transition from the 
mediaeval exterior to the Italian 
decorations within should not be 
too abrupt; its walls are plain 
massive masonry. An inner hall, 
with panelled walls and ceiling, 
gives access to the staircase, 
where may be seen the first traces 
of the rich ornamentation that 
is to follow. The walls are 
panelled with marble, and the 
ceiling is vaulted in stucco work. 
The staircase terminates in a 
vestibule, with a mosaic flooring 
in marble, and round the wall 
runs a painted frieze representing 
the battle of Chevy Chase. From 
this vestibule passages lead to 




the chapel, the bedrooms, and pri¬ 
vate rooms. A doorway leads into 
the antechamber where first the full 
scheme of internal decoration is de¬ 
veloped. The ceiling is of panelled 
wood, richly carved and decorated 
in gold and colours, and the walls 
are hung with satin. 

The exquisite wood-carving is the 
chief feature of the decoration of 
the castle, and was executed under 
the supervision of a Florentine artist. 
Signor Bulletti. For several years 
three hundred carvers were employed 
at this work, and many of them 
reached a very high degree of ex¬ 
cellence, and the castle was for a 
time turned into a school of art. 
The local workmen learned great 
manual dexterity, and the tradition 


of good workmanship in wood still remains in the 
town of Alnwick, which produces admirable uphol¬ 
stery. A carving studio still exists in the castle, 
and the chancel of the parish church has recently 


been adorned with stalls which testify to the ex¬ 
cellence of the studio’s craftsmanship. 

This wood-carving is a still more prominent 
feature of the library, which is entered from 
the antechamber on the left. It is a large oblong 
room, pleasantly broken into recesses such as 
students love. It is rich in treasures of art, chief 
amongst which is the Service Book of Sherborne 
Abbey, the most exquisite specimen of English 
illumination that is in existence. It is dated 
1374, and is the work, as its inscription tells us, 
of one Alain de Wast and his brother. Especially 
beautiful are the floral decorations of the last 
pages; amongst the trees and flowers are perched 
birds, each of which is carefully painted from 
nature, and shows that our forefathers, high-handed 
and hard-hearted as they seem, were keen observers 
and admirers of animal life, and greatly delighted 
in its representation. M. Creighton. 

1 - 1-6 


mHE art of 

JL binding" 

really grew 
out of that of 
writing; for 
the first forms 
of writing on 
rolls, skins, 
and the Egyp¬ 
tian papyri 
were accom¬ 
panied by 
equally rude 
attempts at 
binding, by 
sewing dif¬ 
ferent leaves 
of these mate¬ 
rials together 
for a cover¬ 

The gradual rise and development of the process 
is best studied, by reference to the documents of 
the ancients, who invariably adapted some protection 
for their MSS. and writings. We must seek for 
early examples in the Tamil MSS. and those of 
Japan, which, written on narrow strips of palm-leaf, 
were bound together with flat pieces of wood. Con¬ 
structive ingenuity is manifest, but decorative skill 
is wanting, in these as in other far-distant attempts 
at the binder’s art. When we consider the remote¬ 
ness of the period, it is a surprise that so high a 
standard of excellence was forthcoming. Gradual 
progress is seen in the methods employed, when the 
substitution of square books for the rolls, or “ papyri,” 
called forth further ingenuity, and when leather cases 
were made to wrap round the Greek and Roman 
wand tablets. In most of these instances, durability 
was more considered than design, but the intercourse 
gradually springing up between Eastern and Western 
Europe had its influence also upon ornament, and 
so we find the Byzantine style affecting the binder’s 
art. Wooden boards, covered with metal or copper 
gilt, formed a favourite mode of binding in the 
sixth century, and progress was now quickly made 
towards yet richer decoration. The famous “ Opus 
Anglicanum” style on gold embroidery exercised 
an influence on early art-work ; the convents and 
abbeys of the tenth century were busied in its pro¬ 
duction, and Queen Matilda herself encouraged 
and developed the taste. The Anglo-Saxon era was 

memorable for its love of ornamental design, es- 

O ' 

pecially in needlework, of which the embroidered 
vestments for St. Cuthbert’s shrine, now pre¬ 
served in the cathedral library, Durham, are a fine 

The growing art gained much encouragement 
from the Churches, which were diligent collectors 
of MSS. of the Gospels, the Liturgies, and the 
Fathers. For such sacred treasures no setting 
could be too lavish; and while the shrines were 
beginning to be filled with votive offerings, and gold 
and jewels sparkled from the well-guarded recesses, 
the grand service and choral books of the time 
received their share of decoration. The duty of 
the sacrist was to bind and clasp such books. 

The Irish Church led the way, and the in¬ 
fluence of the Celtic school of design had reached 
England in those most vigorous and tasteful illu¬ 
minations known as “ Anglo-Irish,” developed by 
St. Columba, and afterwards distributed through 
England and Scotland. So much national art on 
the vellum page could not fail to have its counter¬ 
part on the outside cover. Thus we find those price¬ 
less and typical volumes, “ The Book of Armagh,” 
“ The Gospels of St. Columba,” “ The Book of 
Kells,” and others executed in Ireland, and also in 
Scottish monasteries, set with precious stones and 
jewels, or enclosed in metal covers or cases, though 
the scarcity of gold in later times caused them to be 
robbed of their richest ornaments. In the disturbed 
period following the Norman invasion, we cannot 
fix on any representative epoch of art-binding j we 
must look to the gradual work and extension of the 
monasteries in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries 
for definite aims. The Benedictines, whose services 
to monastic literature are specially famous, had 
founded the great religious houses of Cambridge, Ely, 
St. Albans, Tewkesbury, Westminster, and others, 
wherewith the work of the scriptorium, or writing- 
room, has long been connected. The patient labour 
of the scribe, the illuminator, and the binder pro¬ 
duced those treasures which are now collected in the 
vast libraries of England and the Continent. In 
the far-famed cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral can 
be seen the l< carols,” or seats, where each scribe 
took his turn at transcribing or painting MSS.; 
thus may we regard these buildings as workshops 
devoted to the art and learning of the day. 

From the far-off seclusion of Fountains or 
Melrose, to the distant monastery in some pic¬ 
turesque Italian city, or midst the rugged Alpine 

“hooper’s sophistry,’’ 1547. 
(Lambeth Palace.) 



snows, these mediaeval handicrafts were silently pro¬ 
gressing, destined to accomplish a mighty end, to 
be superseded only by the greater invention of print¬ 
ing, and by the influences of the Reformation. 

The monastic binders borrowed from the orna¬ 
ments of the printer many decorative elements, such 
as the tail-pieces, flowered borders, and headings of 
those most noted typographers, the Alduses, and 
the printer's “device” was occasionally reproduced 
on the book-cover. Again, the abbey garden afforded 
examples of ornament in 
the plants and flowers 
there cultivated; their 
graceful outlines could be 
copied or conventionalised 
for decorative design, as 
we know they formed 
many a charming feature 
in the sculptured work of 
our churches and cathe¬ 
drals. We can thus trace 
the adaptation of plant 
ornaments on the bound 
volume of the mediaeval, 
and, still later, of the 
Elizabethan period. 

Thus was the art begun 
and advanced, to be per¬ 
fected by other methods 
and means. For some 
time oaken boards covered 
with leather or pig-skin 
were used; these were 
often stamped with ele¬ 
gant devices, and clasps 
with ornamental chasing 
and silver plating began 
to be used. For special 
volumes, carved ivory and 
enamel enriched the covers, 
and bas-reliefs of Scripture 
scenes were introduced. 

The binding art now as¬ 
sumed definite ornaments and leading forms, aided 
by history and religion : the one supplying varie¬ 
ties of design from distant countries, the other 
fostering those symbolistic types and attributes 
which it specially inculcated. During the Crusades, 
examples of ornament brought from the East in¬ 
fluenced all English art and impressed upon our 
native work new brilliancy of material and hue. The 
minute division of labour, and the employment of 
varied substances, indicate another stage in the 
binder's art. A single cover was the work of 
many artists, belonging to different schools; and 
the painter, goldsmith, and lapidary were severally 

engaged with their individual labour, which resulted 
in that combination of charming ornament which 
is common in mediaeval handicrafts. It was not 
unusual for a MS. version of the Gospels to be 
covered with rich cinque-cento binding, of gilt, sil¬ 
ver, or other richly-ornamented material. The Cruci¬ 
fixion, the Evangelistic symbols, and other devices 
would form the centre and corners; sometimes such 
treasures would be enclosed in silk bags, on which 
designs in silver and filigree work would be wrought. 

Though employments 
for the use of the Church 
ceased to a great extent 
at the Reformation, yet 
a demand arose for those 
decorations which are so 
marked a feature of the 
domestic buildings of the 
sixteenth century. Litera¬ 
ture, architecture, and the 
arts were all in a certain 
unison. The massive port¬ 
cullis of the fortified house 
was adapted in design to 
the antique book-cover; 
old family arms on the 
carved mantle-shelf or 
arabesque panel work, the 
quaint device on the richly- 
emblazoned ceiling, were 
transferred as an exterior 
decoration to a rare edi¬ 
tion of Horace, or a choice 
book of private prayers; 
and it may truly be said, 
“ Art reflected images to 
Art.'' Leather and parch¬ 
ment began to be substi¬ 
tuted for oaken boards, 
and on these, patterns 
could be easily impressed or 
stamped. The era of print¬ 
ing was dawning (1455); 
the binder’s art gradually passed from the monastery 
to the bookseller, who, in the Middle Ages, was 
printer, binder, and bookseller combined. Thus it 
is that a special interest attaches to the “ black 
letter'' volumes of Caxton and other noted printers, 
who united these callings. By degrees, many orna¬ 
ments were developed : as, gilding the leather—a 
process brought into vogue by the encouragement 
of the great Italian families. The extension of trade 
and navigation introduced a greater demand. Venice 
was rising to be the mistress cf art and commerce, 
her merchants returned with wares and novelties 
from distant parts of the globe. Nuremburg, and 

(South Kensington.) 



other centres of industry gave a vigorous impulse to 
all the allied manufactures. The great and wealthy 
patronised the arts, and books were specially illu¬ 
minated, bound, and adorned for public and private 
use. The rich domestic life of the free cities added 
not a little to the spread of all artistic industry. 
The guilds which flourished so greatly at Antwerp, 
Bruges, Ghent, and in many towns of Italy and 
Germany, created a wholesome rivalry in all work, 
while preserving at the same time freedom from 
spurious imitations. The guild of St. John at Bruges 
included “ scribes, printers from wooden blocks, 
binders, and image-makers.” The fusion of many 
branches of the industrial arts, and the introduc¬ 
tion of foreign workmen in the sixteenth century, 
affected the binders equally with other crafts. 

The sixteenth century was the 
Augustan age of binding, and man 
events had prepared the way for this 
the brightest period of its existenc* 

Architecture, painting, and sculptui 
were all influenced by the Renan 
sance, though the influence was fe, 
earlier or later in different countries 
The rich and varied decorations eir 
ployed hy Francis I. in the Louvre 
and at Fontainebleau created a 
similar fashion of imitation in 
the minor branches of binding and 
artistic industry. Book-covers for 
the Medici, Maioli, and other noted 
collectors became types of ele¬ 
gance and taste, while the French 
school of binding, led by the noted 
Jean Grolier, was pre-eminent. 

This demand for great excellence 
penetrated to the Netherlands, 

Spain, Germany, and England; it 
is in France, however, we must 
watch its progress for a while. 

Court binders were here regu¬ 
larly maintained, equally with a 
printer and illuminator, these offices 
having been specially fostered by 
the Medici family. Not only kings 
and queens, but cardinals, poets, 
warriors, and statesmen had their 
own special workmen. Then came 
into fashion that prevalent use 
of mottoes, cyphers, and devices 
which, from adorning the stone 
and wood work of the French cha¬ 
teaux and our own Tudor houses, 
were copied as designs for the 
book-covers of Diane de Poitiers, 

Henry II., and Francis I. of France. 

The royal H, the fleur-de-lis, the bow and crescent 
were the principal motifs employed. These ornaments 
were often changed. There were literary men in those 
days whose employment was solely to supply such em¬ 
blems for dresses, books, and furniture. This change 
of fashion occasioned difficulty in ascertaining the 
age and style of ornament; but, generally speaking, 
original bindings were executed at the time of the 
publication of the volume. White vellum, satiu, 
velvet, and other materials, richly ornamented, were 
much employed, and the personal oversight of the 
artist gave life and beauty to the design which in after- 
ages became a spiritless imitation. The superiority 
of hand-work to machinery springs from the direct 
application of mind to the material, and shows that 
beauty will depend on obedience to the laws of art. 

(Sorith Kensington.) 



France, England, and Italy main¬ 
tained a pre-eminence during the six¬ 
teenth century, and there are many 
circumstances in each country which 
indicate a distinct national culture. 

In England, Hans Holbein occa¬ 
sionally designed for book-covers, as 
we know he did for the title-pages and 
border-patterns of several volumes. 

John Reynes, royal binder to Henry 
VII. and VIII., produced many ex¬ 
cellent examples. Afterwards the 
imitation by English workmen of 
the Grolier style is distinctly seen. 

Much originality and vigour were dis¬ 
played in many English bindings of 
the Tudor period. The Elizabethan 
nobles were famed for their sump¬ 
tuous book-ornaments, whereon were 
wrought the arms of the Leicesters, 
the Arundels, the Cecils, and the 
Burleighs. The Queen herself, pro¬ 
ficient in many arts, is said to have 
been a worker in gold and silver 
embroidery, as was her unfortunate 
cousin, Mary Stuart. At Penshurst, 
in Kent, is preserved the work of 
Elizabeth in the richly-embroidered 
damask of the furniture, while at 
Hardwick Hall are many examples 
of Mary's skill at her needle. 

The sixteenth century in Italy, 
also a period of beauty and elegance, 
is full of varied examples. Church¬ 
men and nobles vied in the cost of 
their bindings; the Papal arms and 
the ducal coronet alike encircled the 
vellum cover, or were conspicuous 
on the gilded leaves of a Dante, 

Petrarch, or Ario'sto. Elaborate 
design both on the covers and inside of rare volumes 
was often the work of famous Italian artists. Vecellio, 
whose work on costumes is of known excellence, 
enriched the wrappers of many books with his 
pencil. Pen-and-ink drawings, washed with bistre 
or Indian ink, and of a subject explanatory of the 
contents, were to be seen on these wrappers. Archi¬ 
tectural works would have views of St. Peter's, at 
Rome, the piazza or lion of St. Mark’s, at Venice, 
the latter figure being represented after the Eastern 
manner, rendered familiar at Venice by the early 
influence of Byzantium. Not only on the sides, 
but on the gilded edges ornament entered; figures 
of a cardinal, a senatoi', or a doge would be introduced 
on books relating to the church or state govern¬ 
ment ; while on a botanical essay, a flower or plant 


(Lambeth Palace.) 

would appropriately appear. Venice, Florence, and 
Rome, the home of the arts and literature, produced 
more beautiful examples than other Italian cities. 
The great families of the Strozzi, Medici, and others 
encouraged the arts; with them, too, is brilliantly 
associated the name of Leo X. So widely was this 
influence felt, that it penetrated to the binding shops 
of Flanders, Spain, and Germany; and the patterns 
of the great Italian collector, Maioli, were imitated 
by foreign binders. 

The fashion of imprinting medallions of the Roman 
emperors on the best and costliest covers may have 
arisen from the custom of placing busts of these em¬ 
perors in the many niches and along the horizontal 
lines of buildings. In England this usage is seen in 
terra-cotta figures filling the spaces and lines of many 



a picturesque manor or ancient house. From this 
the idea may have been gathered for the portrait- 
heads and likenesses occasionally stamped in relief 
or gold-embossed on the covers of sixteenth century 
books. The Grolier style still exercised much in¬ 
fluence on all artistic binding, which took the key¬ 
note, as it were, from its designs. German binding 
of a contemporary or later period than Grolier 
assumed a more individual form and, to some extent, 
a character of its own. 

The seventeenth century witnessed a change in 
book-ornamentation. As works were more and more 
diffused, bookbinders abounded; those worthy of the 
name of artists became fewer, and the patterns grew 
devoid of style. The designs of former periods were 
mixed up with those of contemporary work; over¬ 
abundance and affectation of ornament took the 
place of simple and elegant patterns. Still, there 
were rare editions, as some of the “ Elzevirs/’ whose 
bindings were decorative and choice. The covers of 
these silver-clasped and embossed volumes would be 
enriched with chased or perforated silver. Some 
Spanish bindings were also of much beauty, en¬ 
hanced by a setting of tortoise-shell, enamel, or other 

material. Inlaid variegated leathers in black morocco 
were in vogue, also olive and citron colour of the 
same material. Rich decorations were bestowed on 
ordinary books, as almanacs and journals; and occa¬ 
sionally paper bindings of coloured and variegated 
patterns were introduced. 

In France, towards the end of the seventeenth 
century, a reaction set in, and under the auspices 
of Colbert, the great minister of Louis XIV., no 
expense was spared in obtaining choice treasures of 
artistic binding. The names of De Thou, Du Seuil, 
Padeloup, and others, as binders, are of known 
repute. Du Seuil employed many novelties, one 
of which was the invention of dentelle, a fine tooled 
border resembling lace-work. Heraldic designs were 
also placed at the sides or corners of books, but 
though attractive for the possessor, do not offer 
subjects for the student of decoration. The Court 
favourites of the age lavished great sums on binding; 
Mdme. de Maintenon adopted for the Library of 
St. Cyr the device of a golden cross surmounted by 
a crown, and other collectors had their own devices. 
Louis XIII. and XIV., Richelieu, Le Tellier, Colbert, 
Mdme. de Montpensier, Mdme. de Pompadour, 

were all famous as col¬ 
lectors of these choicely 
bound volumes. The ex¬ 
amples by Padeloup derive 
their artistic value from 
the use of different co¬ 
loured leathers—as olive, 
red morocco, and deep 
blue—rather than from 
the intrinsic merits of 
their designs. 

A certain heaviness of 
pattern was beginning to 
appear in the styles of 
French binding, and orna¬ 
mental designs, sometimes 
borrowed from the print¬ 
ing office, took the place 
of original composition. 
In England we find a 
fixed standard of excel¬ 
lence in the middle of 
the eighteenth century, 
known as the celebrated 
Harleian style, from the 
collector, Harley, Earl of 
Oxford. The names of 
Elliot and Chapman and 
Roger Payne are pass¬ 
ports of assured merit and 
beauty. The present art- 
revival has affected book- 

(South Kensington .) 



(From the Cast; South Kensington .) 

binding, and we rejoice to see many great improve¬ 
ments in our ornamentation—especially of illustrated 
and costly volumes. Some of these exhibit excel¬ 
lent taste, even in the paper which lines the inside 
boards, often of a good decorative pattern. The 

artistic adaptation of old designs to suit the 
character of the book cannot be too strongly 

What is principally called for, however, is a 
revival of the old artistic spirit in the workmen 
themselves. So much is done by machinery now- 
a-days, and so little is left to individual taste 
and skill, that, in almost all the trades alike, the 
artist-mechanic—the craftsman who thinks over 
his task, and spares no pains to make it excellent 
and beautiful, as it behoves a person with an ideal 
and a conscience of his own to do—is very rapidly 
becoming extinct. Most things are produced by 
rule of thumb, or by the operation of some me¬ 
chanical process; much average work is cheap, 
common, and merely makeshift and temporary; 
and of work that is at once individual and good 
we see but little. The bookbinders have no more 
escaped the contagion than their many compeers. 
In their way they are as conventional and un¬ 
interesting as the boot-closers are in theirs; and 
for one specimen that they can show of original 
and novel effort, they can point-to hundreds of 
thousands that are neither the one nor the other. 
This should not be. Goodly bindings are oljets 
cVart as well as oljets fie luxe; and a rich library, 
ablaze with solemn gold and grave yet gorgeous 
colouring, is as fairly entitled to be called a place of 
art as a choicely-furnished picture gallery itself. It 
is for those who have money to lavish on bindings 
to initiate the movement of reform, by declining 
to admit to their shelves any exemplars of the 
binder's craft that are not hand-made through¬ 
out, and by providing such artist-mechanics as 
still exist with as much work as will enable them 
to get along without producing common stuff for 
the profane crowd. A little encouragement, and we 
should have our Groliers and our Roger Paynes, 
no doubt. S. W. Kershaw. 



HEN the Revolution broke out in 1830, and 
Belgium became, for the first time, an inde¬ 
pendent State, Art was awakening from a slumber 
of about a century and a half, during which period 
not a single artist had arisen whose name is worth 
i-emembering. The traditions of the old Flemish 
school had been forgotten; its glory had departed. 
A blight had fallen, and the barrenness it produced 
extended to architecture and manufactures, as well as 
to painting and sculpture. One need not look further 
for evidence of the degeneration of public taste than 

the many churches and other buildings still dis¬ 
figured by whitewash and plaster, or by the unsightly 
buildings erected against their walls, a permanent 
eyesore to the present generation. Belgian artists 
sought in France the inspiration they had lost; and 
they were content to be imitators, and but feeble 
imitators, of the little masters who flourished under 
the patronage of the Court. It was towards the 
close of last century that Louis David, returning 
home from Italy overflowing with admiration for the 
classic forms of Greece and Rome, inaugurated a new 

(From the Picture by Delperec.) 



era by waging war on the effeminate style then pre¬ 
vailing, and prepared the way for the reaction of the 
Romantic school. Republican France was then in 
the hands of men who believed themselves cast in 
the same mould as the heroes of antiquity, and David 
found himself in a congenial atmosphere, and was 
acknowledged as the regenerator of art. Having 
been appointed painter in ordinary to the First Napo¬ 
leon, and having become as ardent an Imperialist as 
he had been a Republican, he was, after the fall of 

In throwing open at the same time as the Exhibi¬ 
tion of Industry an exhibition of works of the prin¬ 
cipal native artists of the last fifty years, the Belgian 
Government celebrated recently an epoch in art as 
well as in the political and industrial history of the 
country; and the occasion was a fitting one for the 
opening of the handsome new building, which bears 
the not too ambitious name of Palais des Beaux-Arts. 

During the reigns of Leopold I. and his suc¬ 
cessor every encouragement has been given to art. 


(From the Picture by Van Beers.) 

the Empire, banished by Louis XVIII., and took up 
his abode in Belgium until his death in 1825. His 
’ arrival there was an event, and he was warmly 
welcomed by a band of enthusiastic disciples. The 
artist-world of Belgium was then divided into three 
camps : the pupils of David, those who had adopted 
the traditions of the Italian school or the Renais¬ 
sance, and those who sought to walk in the steps of 
the old Flemish masters. The emulation between 
them resulted in the ascendancy being gained by the 
one which might be called the National party, which, 
later on, being led by the influence of French Roman¬ 
ticism to a closer study of nature and reality, gave 
birth to the modern Belgian school. 

The Royal Family and the Government have been 
liberal in their purchases of works of merit, of 
which there are valuable collections in the palaces 
of the King and of the Count of Flanders. Great 
attention has been paid to providing the best in¬ 
struction both in Brussels and in the provinces; and 
annual exhibitions at Brussels, Antwerp, and Ghent, 
in turn, give talent the means of becoming known 
and appreciated. The academies of these three cities 
have been re-organised; and the day and evening 
classes, under distinguished professors, are open gra¬ 
tuitously to such as can pass an easy examination, 
foreigners being placed on entirely the same footing 
as natives. 



The Exposition Historique de l’Art Beige showed, 
in its different stages, the progress which art has 
made, and the phases through which it has passed, 
during the last half-century. A few familiar names 
were indeed looked for in vain, as well as some of 
the pictures which, at the time of their appearance, 
made a great sensation; but these may be seen in 
the museums and in public buildings. The pecu¬ 
liar interest of this collection was that it had been, 
for a great part, contributed from private galleries 
and other sources not accessible to the public. 

The names of Wappers, Leys, and De Keyzer, of 
Gallait and De Biefve, the last three of whom are 
still living, recall the days when these artists exercised 
a real fascination. The subjects they chose, episodes 
of the history of the great struggle that had deluged 
the Netherlands with blood, appealed to the patriotic 
feelings of the Belgian people, who had so recently 
been fighting for independence, and who felt proud 
that a revival of art should coincide with the birth of 
their new institutions. Already at the Salon of 1830 
a picture by a young and unknown artist created 
an extraordinary sensation. It was Gustaf Wappers’ 
“ Vander Werf,” representing the heroic conduct of 
the Burgomaster of Leyden during the siege of 1574. 
Its rich colouring and bold treatment were a novelty, 
a revelation full of promise, and gave hopes that the 

mantle of Rubens had at last fallen on a worthy 
successor. Wappers was the first of a new generation 
of painters, who have fulfilled the expectations raised 
by a brilliant debut. De Iveyzer’s “ Battle of the 
Spurs” soon followed : with, later on, his fine “Battle 
of Waeringen,” De Biefve’s “Compromise of the 
Nobles,” and Gall ait’s “Abdication of Charles V.,” 
his “ Last Honours rendered to Counts Earnout and 
Horne,” and his “ Last Moments of Count Earnout.” 
These two last, Gallait’s masterpieces, sent from the 
Museums of Tournay and Berlin, were to be seen at 
the exhibition, and, notwithstanding defects inherited 
from David, they maintained their rank amongst 
the best Belgian work of the last fifty years, and 
deserve the place of honour they occupied in the 
Grand Salon. A full-length portrait of M. Frere- 
Orban, the Prime Minister, just finished, had been 
added since the opening of the exhibition, showing 
that the venerable artist has lost none of his vigour 
and power. By M. Gallait nineteen pictures were 
exhibited, of which twelve were portraits; by Wappers 
five, by Leys eighteen, and by De Keyzer twelve. It 
is interesting to compare these with the pictures now 
in the Brussels Museum by Navez, the most successful 
of David’s pupils, none of whom understood, or could 
understand, as their master did, the correct and severe 
beauty of ancient art. The cold, stiff conventionality 

.From the Picture by De Vigne.) 



of Navez—redeemed, however, by one great quality, 
the perfection of his drawing—is less noticeable in his 
portraits, a number of which, all excellent, displayed 
his talent in the most favourable light. As director 
for many years of the Brussels Academy, he rendered 
great service by the importance he attached to correct 
drawing as the foundation of good painting—a prin¬ 
ciple still insisted upon there—while the Antwerp 
Academy, to which we owe Wappers, De Keyzer, 
and Leys, in its admiration for Rubens, was paying 
more attention to colour. The difference which 
then existed in the teaching of the two rival aca¬ 
demies is now disappearing, as each has borrowed 
from the other its distinctive qualities. Both can 
boast a number of distinguished pupils who raised 
the reputation of the Belgian school: Slingeneyer, 
who at eighteen produced his “ Vengeur," and 
whose “ Christian Martyr " nearly twenty years 
ago attracted so much attention in London ; Dyck- 
man, whose “ Grandmother's Fete " was sent here 
from the South Kensington Museum; Deblock 
and Madou, all known to fame as gen re- painters; 
Clays and Lehon, as marine - painters; Kuhnen, 
Lauters, Knyttenbrouwer, and Fourmois, as land¬ 
scape-painters ; Verboeckhoven and Joseph Stevens 
for animals, and Robie for flowers and fruit. Wiertz 
belongs to this period: his “ Patroclus," first-fruits 
of his talent, which he painted in Italy and brought 
to Brussels in 1835, is now in the Museum of Liege : 
the copy to be seen in the almost complete collec¬ 
tion of his works, in the well-known Musee Wiertz, 
being a reproduction of later date, which shows signs 
of matured ability. 

The Belgian school has not remained stationary. 
To the Flemish Renaissance, which superseded the 
classicalism and romanticism of the earlier part of 
this century, has succeeded the study of nature and 
the quest after originality. Liberty in art pro¬ 
tests against tradition and conventionalism. Leys 
in his later works had followed the movement—wit¬ 
ness the scenes from the history of Antwerp which 
decorate the banqueting-hall of the Town House 
in that city, now called as a tribute to his memory 
the Salle Leys. The two De Vriendts follow, 
though at some distance, in his steps, and, like 
him, have made a careful study of the bric-a-brac 
of mediaeval times. They excel in the costumes of 
their personages, the furniture, tapestries, and other 
surroundings, but must be held responsible for en¬ 
couraging inferior imitators, to whom an episode of 
national history supplies only a peg on which to 
hang clothes. Albrecht De Vriendt's “ Excommu¬ 
nication of Bouchard d'Avesne," in the Brussels 
Museum, is a good sample of his style and of this 
class of picture. His “ Philippe le Beau naming 
his son Charles of Luxembourg Knight of the Order 

of the Golden Fleece" is his latest but not his best 
production. Julian De Vriendt takes his subjects 
from the life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary and 
St. Cecilia, and endeavours to revive something of 
the mystic feeling which has long ceased to be a 
source of inspiration. Of one, “ The Death-bed of 
St. Cecilia," we give an engraving. While St. 
Urban, to whose care Cecilia has committed her 
converts, is praying beside her death-bed, a bright 
vision of the angelic host lights up the sombre 
and melancholy scene. Delperee's “ Luther at the 
Diet of Worms," the subject of our full-page illus¬ 
tration, is full of animation and expression, and 
formed a contrast to the stillness and solemnity 
of his “ Prior of the Monastery of St. Juste sum¬ 
moning Charles V. to the Celebration of his 
Funeral." Soubre's “ Family of Gueux before the 
Council of Blood" (from the Museum of Liege) 
is well grouped: on one side the Reformed Pastor 
and the Gueux nobleman and his family—the 
men, firm, resigned, awaiting their doom, and 
the wife thinking of her children, for whom she 
vainly hopes for pity; on the other side, the ac¬ 
cuser energetically pleading for the vengeance of 
the law on these obdurate heretics; and in the 
centre, the judges, heedless of the misery before 
them. Karel Ooms's “ Duke of Alva" is wasting 
away with a low fever, oppressed by the recollection 
of the cruelties that have left an indelible stain on 
his name. It is finely treated, and worthy of one 
of De Keyzer's best pupils. Wauters and Verlat 
preferred exhibiting in other places their collected 
works, to sending in a selection which would show 
the place they hold among their contemporaries. 
Their abstention was to be regretted. Cluysenaar's 
“ Canossa," an engraving of which will be found 
on a preceding page, was one of the most striking 
pictures in the exhibition, where it represented the 
last development of the Modern school. Stallaert re¬ 
mains wedded to academic traditions; his “Medea" 
and “Gladiators" are carefully executed, excellent in 
their way, and equal to his former productions; but 
the current flows in another direction, and threatens 
to leave him behind. It would be a long list that 
mentioned all the painters of real merit that have 
earned distinction during the last fifty years. Many 
of their names are familiar in England. Madou, the 
prince of Belgian genre- painters, is dead ; so also 
are Dillens, Lies, De Yigne—of whose graceful and 
pleasing “ Sunday Morning in Winter," belonging 
to the Brussels Museum, we give an engraving. Of 
landscape-painters, Fourmois and Kindermans, and 
of animal-painters, Verboeckhoven, have passed away, 
while many of their contemporaries, equally cele¬ 
brated, are still among us. Of the younger genera¬ 
tion of aspirants to fame, none gives greater promise 



(From the Picture by De Vriendt.) 

than Jan Van Beers, the son of the popular Flemish pictures that attracted most attention in the col- 

poet. “Fleur de Neige” and “ Fior d’Aliza,” two lection. Van Beers has a trick of eccentricity, no 

charming heads, exquisitely and delicately finished, doubt; but the defect is one that will cure itself, 
like all that Van Beers does, were exhibited on each for there is in him the stuff of a master who is 

side of his “Summer Evening/’ and were among the capable of achieving European popularity and success. 



V ISITORS to the last exhibition of “Old 
Masters ” cannot fail to have been attracted 
by a picture of a boy pulling at a kite-string, which 
met their eyes directly they turned to the left in 
the first room; it was, in fact, No. 1 in the catalogue. 
Many will have wished to know who was the author 
of this vigoi’ous painting; and when they saw by 
the catalogue that it was one Hugh Robinson, they 
must have wondered that they had never heard his 
name, and they may have searched art dictionaries 
and histories for it in vain. 

All that is known of Hugh Robinson may be 
told in a few words. He was the eldest son and 
second child of Henry Robinson, Esq., of Malton, 
in Yorkshire, and was born in that town about the 
year 1760. From earliest years he displayed a great 
love and talent for art, but of teachers, so far as it 
is known, he had none. It was not until quite 
recently that chance verified the supposition that 
he went to London to study painting about 1780. 
In that year, as Mr. Algernon Graves has dis¬ 
covered, -we find his name in the Royal Academy 

catalogue as the exhibitor of a “ Portrait of a 


Gentleman.” He was then living at 12, Carey Street, 
Strand. Two years later, when he had moved to 
16, Mitre Court, Temple (near which spot a relation 
of his resided), lie sent to the Academy a “Head of 
a Beffffar” and another “Portrait of a Gentleman.” 
With these pictures his exhibition life came to an 
end; and shortly afterwards, probably in 1783, he 
went, as many a young painter had done before him, 
to Italy, the home of the arts. There he resided, 
chiefly in Rome, and worked assiduously at his art, 
till the year 1790, when it is known that he started 
off on horseback on his homeward journey. But, 
already stricken by mortal illness, rapid consumption 
carried him off' before he reached England. By a 
strange fatality, the ship by which he had sent all 
his pictures foundered at sea, and the productions 
of his best years thus perished at the same time 
with their author. Such of his works as are left to 
us must all have been executed before he was twenty- 
four years of age. One may sit in the dining-room 
at Downe Hall, the residence of Mr. J. M. Teesdale, 



the present representative of the artist's family, and 
see them every one. To do so is to wish that his 
later pictures had been spared, and to recognise that 
he had in him the makings of a fine painter. 

Let us give first place to the “ Boy with a Kite," 
already referred to, which is usually considered the 
painter's masterpiece. A bold work for so young a 
man, it is especially remarkable for an entire absence 
of that theatrical effect which one might have been 
led to expect in the treatment of such a subject. 
To say that it recalls Gainsborough is merely to 
record a common opinion ; and as Gainsborough was 
at the height of his fame when Robinson visited 
London, it is only fair to assume that his works 
may have influenced the young Yorkshireman. But 
this is mere supposition, for there is nothing to 
show whether this picture was executed before or 
after the journey to London. One cannot, however, 
help thinking that had Robinson already produced 
such a work when he came to London, his friends 
would have persuaded him to exhibit it. Mr. 
Monkhouse, writing in the Academy, compares it 
with Gainsborough's “ Blue Boy," with which it 
is, in fact, almost contemporaneous; but he justly 
complains that the figure is scarcely sufficiently re¬ 
lieved from the background. Yet, notwithstanding 
this, one must admit that this work, which might 
be called the “ Green Boy," is brilliantly conceived 

and executed. Vigour is aptly expressed in the 
hero's face, which tells us that the strong wind on 
the Yorkshire moor has rendered the kite almost 
unmanageable, in the string which cuts into his left 
hand, in his green jacket and socks awry, and 
indeed in the whole movement of his body. The 
work, which is a portrait of Thomas Teesdale, a 
nephew of the painter, has been well mezzotinted 
by S. W. Reynolds; an artist’s proof is at Downe 

To turn from this to the “ Piping Boy " is much 
like seeking shelter from a gale under the lee of a 
hill. Here we have true quiet and repose, and an 
air of fresh tranquillity breathing throughout the 
picture. The hero, who reclines, in a brown sleeve¬ 
less jacket and mouse-coloured knee-breeches, in a 
charming landscape, is a lad whom Hugh Robinson 
employed to rub in his colours. Though not such 
a dashing composition as the “ Boy with a Kite," it 
is, in my opinion, more thoroughly successful. It is 
a very idyl which one might gaze on for ever with¬ 
out tiring. I need hardly add that, like the u Boy 
with the Kite," it reminds us of Gainsborough. 

Seven other works by Robinson are in the same 
room: a portrait of his brother, the Rev. Henry 
Robinson, who is seen side-face reading a book; 
one of his father, Henry Robinson, Esq., full-face 
with a landscape background; a third of his mother, 


(From the Painting by Hugh Robinson.) 



(From the Painting by Hugh Robinson.) 

in a mob-cap with a red ribbon ; one of 
Sir William St. Quentin, a friend of 
the family; and two portraits of the 
painter, both taken about the same 
time, and both three-quarter face. In 
the one he wears a hat, in the other 
he is bareheaded; both display an air 
of intelligence, and in both you recog¬ 
nise a likeness to the painter's father 
and brother. As regards the former, 
it is not, I venture to think, too much 
to say that it reminds one of Franz 
Hals. The last work at Downe hy 
Robinson is a remarkable head of an 
old man with a grey beard, wearing a 
turban, which has until recently been 
called a “ Roman Jew," but which is 
probably the " Head of a Beggar" ex¬ 
hibited at the Academy of 1782. The 
model's sunburnt face is carefully and 
minutely rendered, and yet there is 
nothing lacking of the boldness of the 
other works. All the above portraits 
are about half-length. 

The remainder of Robinson’s pic¬ 
tures comprise copies of two portraits 
by Sir Joshua Reynolds—those of Miss 
Palmer and of Baretti, the Italian lexi¬ 
cographer—probably executed during 
his stay in London; a copy of a “ Ma¬ 
donna and Child " by Van Dyck; two 
portraits of an uncle; and two of a first-cousin, 
Marmaduke Robinson. One can only surmise as 
to which of all the above-mentioned portraits were 
the two exhibited at the Royal Academy : perhaps 
those of his father and his brother, likely sub¬ 
jects for the 'prentice hand of a young beginner. 
The two illustrations given go far, 1 hope, to prove 

that Hugh Robinson should no longer remain, what 
he has been until now—j motor ignotus. Those who 
would have still fairer proof have only to turn to 
the original of his “ Piping Boy" exhibited amongst 
the Old Masters at Burlington House, to see that 
English art was, in his untimely death, the loser 
by a great deal. F. Cunoai.l. 

: ; 


T HERE seems to be a prevailing impression that 
if womenkind dress themselves in olive-greens 
and teints degrades, their garments will immediately 
become pleasing to the lover of the beautiful. It 
takes more than this to make dress attractive. Decided 
colours are to be unhesitatingly preferred to demi- 
tones and drabs and mixtures. If we can give people 
pleasure with no more trouble to ourselves than 
wearing a colour wholesome to the eyes, we may as 
well do so. But by decided colours I would not be 
thought to mean crude colours and coarse dyes. In 
this climate Nature teaches us to use colours in rich 

but subdued tones, especially when they are presented 
in any mass. Grass is not really emerald-green; look 
carefully at the brightest green field, and you will 
see that it is toned with a delicate bloom of grey, 
purple, or reddish. The reds and yellows of sunset are 
nowhere without hints and suggestions of purple. 
The brilliancy of flowers we can scarcely emulate; 
and if we could, the mass of bright colour would 
be too large. The right use of very bright colours is 
to adorn our dress as flowers adorn the landscape. 

In choosing colours, then, those are best which 
suggest a toning down of brilliancy—in which there 



seems to be a scrt of bloom over the dominant shade, 
or where another colour mingles with it subordinately: 
as blues which suggest green, reds which suggest 
purple, purple that suggests russet, and effects of that 
sort. The suggested colour may often be used in 
accessories to the dress, or the embroidery upon it; 
but to do so requires great care and a good eye for 
colour. Green-blues, for instance, harmonise with 
blue-greens; as we may see in peacock’s feathers. 
Red and blue purples are sometimes exceedingly 
beautiful together; as witness many an autumn land¬ 
scape. In the Canariensis is displayed an exquisite 
combination of yellow and yellowish-green. Autumn, 
again, gives us beautiful harmonies of yellow-browns 
and olive-greens. It is quite impossible to particu¬ 
larise all the pleasing combinations of colour that 
are possible, even if I limit myself to two colours in 
each; if I take three colours in each, the number of 
possible combinations becomes far larger. A flower, 
a brilliant jewel, a rich embroidery, may be used to 
give point when two or more subdued colours are 
already used. It must not be forgotten that many 
and totally different effects are producible by the use 
of two same colours, as the one or the other is em¬ 
ployed in larger proportion. It is frequently admis¬ 
sible to use them in one key only. Thus, a small 
quantity of bright red may be used with a large 
quantity of subdued blue; a small quantity of blue 
with red would not look well at all. Green trims 
dark blue better than dark blue trims green, but 
light blue can be used to trim dark green. I have 
seen very pretty dark blue dresses with lighter trim¬ 
mings of green in smocking and embroidery, and a 
dress of green satin delicately embroidered with blue 
of a lighter shade than its own. 

There are many ways of introducing harmonising 
colours into dresses. Most people have the one 
method—a not particularly pleasant one—of throw¬ 
ing in bows of tinted ribbon. Bows are all very well 
in their place—when they tie, or may be supposed to 
tie, something; but one does not want a gown to be 
a mere opportunity for bows. Dainty needlework, in 
colours chosen carefully to suit the groundwork of 
the dress, is one of the aptest vehicles for the in¬ 
troduction of colour. Sometimes a portion of the 
dress may be lined, or the neck and wrists may be 
bound over, with velvet of a harmonising tint: as 
russet-brown on olive-green, or dark green velvet 
upon peacock-blue, and so on. Sashes chosen in 
the same way, not to match the dress, but to in¬ 
troduce a rich half-tone, are often very attractive 

The complexion, hair, and eyes of the wearer 
must always be considered. People with reddish-gold 
hair and light blue or grey eyes look wonderfully 
well in rich warm browns, and sometimes in yellow; 

but they would probably look ridiculous in peacock- 
blue or scarlet. Dark people with clear skins and 
rich complexions can often wear warm, deep colours, 
but do not look at all well in light blues and faint 
exquisite pinks. Golden hair inclining to flaxen is 
greatly enhanced in beauty by greens toned with 
yellow, and by peachy purples. There are people 
with a grey look about them who never look better 
than in quaker hues, and others with a delicate bloom 
of pink and a clear skin with blue veins, who 
look equally well in either pale blue or pale pink. 
These combinations of complexion and colour might 
be varied ad infinitum. It is ridiculous to see 
people of all complexions donning the “ colour of the 
season,” in obedience to the dictates of fashion, with¬ 
out the slightest regard to fitness or propriety. I 
am constantly told that some lovely colour is old- 
fashioned. Fortunately there are some shops yet— 
as Burnet’s and Liberty’s—where you can buy old- 
fashioned colours; so that you may still practise 
in your own garments a refreshing change from the 
general livery. 

We frequently hear it remarked that people never 
look so well as in black; that, although it is not de¬ 
sirable that all the world should lay bright colours 
by, nothing is so becoming as black to the individual 
wearer. It is quite true that black, being negative, 
does not jurer with complexions of any tint, and, 
well relieved with white, forms the simplest arrange¬ 
ment of light and shade we can command. To the 
fair-skinned European races, indeed, black and white 
dress is naturally becoming; for the delicate tones 
of the skin form a middle tint between the two. On 
the other hand, if we come upon a negro dressed 
in black, the features and the pupils of the eyes, 
which we wish particularly to see, have vanished; 
we cannot get rid of the whites of the eyes, which 
are forced into startling and unpleasant forwardness, 
and which, under a normal state of circumstances, are 
intended only to enhance the dark pupil and iris. 
A light dress, which brings out the dark features 
and tones down the white of the eye, is the proper 
wear for dark races. In fair races the rule—with 
individual exceptions, of course-—is that the dark eye 
harmonises the fair skin with the dark dress, or is 
a telling point of colour when a light dress is worn. 
To my mind people of beautiful colouring—not 
at all uncommon in England—look best attired 
with equal attention to the tinting and the light 
and shade of the complexion; but the effect can 
never be complete without the mediation of some 
neutral colour—white is the best—between the 
face and hands and the dress. The white may be 
slightly toned, like old lace. We want the suggestion 
of clean linen as well as the actual colour of the white. 
For most people pure white linen and muslin look 



better than anything else. A very pale dress often 
looks the better for the accentuation of a darker 
colour, though sometimes the hair and eyes of the 
wearer are enough for the darkest tone. Dressing, in 
truth, is much like composing a picture, and as we 
are not all artists, we are not all happily attired. 
It must be owned, too, that we have to contend with 
a good many unfavourable circumstances, and that 



■ 111 

* vA 



N the history of domestic 
implements it may not, 
perhaps, be generally known 
that the simple and homely 
spoon boasts a position of 
considerable antiquity, and 
has, at one period, at least, 
of artistic excellence, been 
the subject of considerable 
ornamental skill on the 
,, part of its producer. We 
fa J are accustomed to think 
of our more remote ances¬ 
tors as supplying them¬ 
selves with food in the 
most natural, not to say bar¬ 
barous, fashions. Even the 
elegant Ovid, in his “ Art of 
Loving/’ written two years 
before the Christian era, gives 
the injunction— 

“ Carpe cibos digitis.” 

We must, however, leave to the 
learned antiquary the task of find¬ 
ing the exact date at which the 
invention of such instruments took 
place, and the name of the country 
in which their use was first intro¬ 
duced. Certain it is that two kinds 
of spoons were known to the Ro¬ 
mans. One, figured in our initial, 
they called a “ cochlear,” because 
they used the point of the handle to 
draw snails and mussels out of their 
shells, the bowl serving for eggs, 
jellies, and other aliments of little 
consistency. Copies of three an¬ 
cient silver spoons are given in the 
Museo Borbonico of about the size 
of a dessert-spoon, one of which is 
a cochlear with round bowl and 
point, the other two being of oval 

we are ill placed for knowing what is right, much 
less for doing it. All qualities — of colour, light 
and shade, and form—are beautifully perfect in the 
peasant costume of various countries : a result, no 
doubt, of centuries of elaboration. Now we suffer 
constant change, and every one has to choose for 
herself; and, as we all have found, it is very easy 
to make mistakes. L. Hemingham. 


shape, and with round handles. Another Roman spoon, 
with a bowl of oval shape, may be seen in the in¬ 
teresting collection of antiquities at Mayenee, carved 
in bone or ivory, and actually possessing the familiar 
“ rat-tail ” hereafter to be mentioned. 

My object in the present paper is to give some 
idea of the development, artistic and other, of the 
spoon in more modern times; and my task, I may 
note, is rendered easy by the presence of the hall-mark 
to be found on English specimens in silver, which 
is, when legible, an infallible guide as to the year of 

their manufacture. In fa 
English piece of plate 
years is both signed and 
dated, being stamped with 
the initial or initials of 
the maker, as well as a 
letter of the alphabet 
indicating the year of 
its origin. 

In the Middle Ages 
there are proofs of the 
existence of spoons as far 
back as the thirteenth 
century, but these were, 
no doubt, for the most 
part, of wood, or of pew¬ 
ter. The fork, however, 
was not in general use 
till after the time of 

It must be a matter 
of common experience 
among those who are ac¬ 
quainted with the study 
of antiquities in the pro¬ 
vinces, that objects of art 
whose origin has preten¬ 
sions to a more or less 
remote date are almost 
invariably referred to the 
time, if not to the pos- 

:t, as a general rule, every 
f the last four hundred 





session, of one of four rulers of Eng¬ 
land—Queen Elizabeth, Charles I., 
Oliver Cromwell, or Queen Anne. 
These seem to constitute the great 
popular landmarks of history, for the 
preservation of whose memory tra¬ 
dition has as yet done more than 
Education Acts and School Boards. 
But, however unfair it may seem to 
ignore the claims of other monarchs 
to the credit of works of art pro¬ 
duced in their time, there is, no doubt, 
much sense and convenience in the 
above division, and it is 
one which happens to ap¬ 
proach exactness in the 
changes which have oc¬ 
curred in the form of 
spoons. For plate, like 
other luxuries, such as 
jewellery and dress, has 
been the sport of fashion, 
and subject to all the ca¬ 
prices of that fickle god¬ 
dess. The division must, 
however, he understood in 
this sense : that the forms 
which prevailed in the time of Elizabeth existed also 
in the reigns of her predecessors for a hundred years, 
as well as for a generation or more afterwards. The 
second division, which begins rather with the Restora¬ 
tion than the Commonwealth, is of much shorter 
duration, ending with the death of Queen Anne, in 
1714; and then we come to another distinct period of 
some fifty years, extending to the third quarter of 
the last century. It now remains to consider the 
distinctive shapes that belong to each of these divi¬ 
sions of time. 

We are told by Mr. Cripps, in his valuable 
work on “Antique Silver,” that “ the most ancient 
piece of English hall-marked plate in existence is a 
simple spoon,” bearing the date of 1445-6, in the 
reign of Henry YI. This year falls within the 
great epoch of the Renaissance in Italy, whence 
taste and culture spread so rapidly to other countries 
of Western Europe. The specimen in question is 
even historical, and is known to collectors as the 
“ Pudsey Spoon,” having been given to Sir Ralph 
Pudsey by King Henry YI., together with his boots 
and gloves, after the rout at Hexham. This spoon 
is now preserved at Hornby Castle, Lancashire, by 
a descendant of Sir Ralph Pudsey. Its pedigree 
is declared to be undoubted; and in proof of its 
authenticity it bears the royal badge of a single rose 
engraved on the top of the handle, which resembles a 
common seal with six sides. The form of spoons from 

this time down to the Restoration varies only in the 
designs affixed to the points of the handles, but differs 
in every respect from the modern type. Thus, the 
bowl is pear-shaped; the stem is firm and solid as a 
pillar; and the handle is either a plain round knob 
or ball, or any carved device into which the skill of 
the maker could convert it. We find, for instance, 
the figure of an apostle, the head and shoulders of a 
maiden, a lion sejant, an owl, a pomegranate, an 
acorn, a diamond, a scallop-shell, or, most commonly 
of all, a seal. The character is therefore highly 
ornamental and pleasing to the eye, without any 
loss of utility, and is quite in harmony with the 
decorative and artistic fashions of this very interest¬ 
ing period. 

Fig. 2 is a solid bronze spoon about fourteen 
inches in length, too massive to be comfortably raised 
to the mouth, but veiy serviceable for heavier work. 
It probably belongs to the fifteenth or sixteenth 
century. One may easily conceive that a barbarian 
of the lowest state of intelligence, being in want of 
such assistance as a spoon supplies, might avail him¬ 
self of a shell to serve his purpose; and it would 
need no great amount of ingenuity to apply to this 




something in the form of a handle. The specimen 
here figured, then, embodies this idea, the howl 
being fashioned like a scallop, and attached to a 
strong spiral handle which ends in a solid knob 
somewhat in the form of a crown. Fig. 1 is taken 
from a genuine apostle spoon of the time of Elizabeth, 
bearing the date 1587, the personage of St. Peter 
being identified by the attribute of the key. It should 
be remarked that there is always one peculiarity 
about the London-made spoons of the first or Eliza¬ 
bethan period. This is, that the interior of the bowl 
is stamped with the leopard’s head, a hall-mark which 
runs through the whole series of English plate, but 
which in the later times was invariably placed on the 
back of the handle. This so-called leopard’s head, 
however, is really the face of the grand old English 
lion: the name of leopard having crept in from the 
use of the heraldic French “leopart” in ancient docu¬ 
ments, and meaning no more than a lion figured 
and seen full-face. The likeness to our national 
emblem is, however, so striking that a cursory inspec¬ 
tion will prevent any zoological confusion. It should 
be added that even in the days of the Commonwealth 
the head is adorned with a crown, which only disap¬ 
peared from the hall-mark in the year 1823. Fig. 4 
is a very graceful spoon, adorned at the end with the 
bust of a maiden. This bears the date of the ninth 
year of James I. 

The remaining specimen (Fig. 3) is generally 
known as the seal-top s]x>on, a name which explains 

itself. A large number of these are now exhibited 
at the South Kensington Museum, and they are the 
least rare of the various forms belonging to the period, 
having been made down to the end of the Com¬ 
monwealth. This particular spoon, however, was not 
made in London, but at Exeter, and is stamped with 
the principal mark of that town. Instead of the lion, 
or “ leopard's,” head inside the bowl, we find the letter 
X, still surmounted by a crown; while in the place of 
the usual marks at the back of the stem the name 
of the maker “ Radcliee” appears in full—a silver¬ 
smith who is known to have worked in that impor¬ 
tant city of the West in the latter years of Charles I. 
The full names of other makers are also known to have 
been stamped in this way, and a spoon with a lion 
sejant in the possession of the writer bears that of 
“Wade.” But such marks are exceptional and rare, 
signature by initials being the rule. Another kind 
of handle, which was made, perhaps, more frequently 
in the time of Cromwell than before it (though 
known also in the early years of Elizabeth), consists 
of a plain stem cut off obliquely at the end, as if with 
one stroke of a knife, in an iconoclastic fashion, the 
ornament at the end thus completely disappearing, 
without any alteration to the bowl. The change 
which occurred at the Restoration affects every part 
of the spoon ; but any notice of this, or of other and 
subsequent transformations, would lead us far beyond 
our present limits, and must form the matter of a 
new paper. T. W. Greene. 


I T was certainly a happy idea to form this exhibition 
of marine paintings at the Fine Art Society’s 
Gallery in Bond Street. An entire collection of 
pictures illustrating one subject is instructive, and 
at the same time not so fatiguing as one of those 
ordinary exhibitions in which the attention is 
forced to turn rapidly from one subject to another 
with no more reasonable interval than that of a 
glaring gilt frame. The owners of important English 
sea pictures have generously lent them, so that in 
this gathering we have many of the masterpieces 
of Mr. Brett and Mr. Hook; together with im¬ 
portant works by Mr. Henry Moore, Mr. II. Mac- 
callum, Mr. Colin Hunter, and most of the other 
famous marine-painters. 

Mr. Brett exhibited here, but only we believe for 
a few days, about forty small but exquisite studies 
from nature, to which, as they were not included 
in the catalogue, we are unable to call attention in 
detail. In these sketches we find the fresh charm 

of out-door life; the air seems impregnated with the 
salt sea, bright sunshine lies on rocks tipped with 
lichen, and at the foot of rugged cliffs the rippling 
water reflects a world of fleeting skies. We cannot 
help thinking that when Mr. Brett repeats these 
effects on a larger scale, his pictures lose much of 
their charm. Some of his more ambitious work is 
undeniably hard and metallic, with a slight harshness 
of colour and a want of moisture in the atmosphere. 
Still, his knowledge of his subject is great, and 
his paintings cannot but impress the spectator with 
a sense of their trustworthiness. “ Duchy Reef, 
Cornwall,” and “ A Fresh Summer Day on a 
Dangerous Coast,” show a restless sea fretting 
angrily against half-hidden treacherous rocks; both 
are masterly, hut the sky in the latter work does 
not appear to be quite in keeping with the tone 
of the sea. In the “ Cornish Lions ” Mr. Brett 
paints grey cliffs, crowned with yellow verdure and 
facing the ocean, whose waters lap monotonously 



at their feet. “ A Summer Sunset " is seen in the 
midst of the waters, with no land visible except 
a broken line of huge hatchet-shaped rocks which 
rise sharply out of the sea, while the fading rays of 
the setting sun seem to cast a mysterious spell over 
all things. Several of these attractive works of 
Mr. Brett have already been seen by the public at 
the exhibitions of the Royal Academy. 

Mr. Hook's pictures are always fresh, breezy, 
luminous, and delightful. The sea, however, in “Fish 
from the Dogger Bank’' looks faded in comparison 
with his later and more vigorous seas. On a flat beach 
are flsh-wives in bright-coloured kerchiefs and hoods, 
dividing their property in a heap of fish. “ The 
Trawlers" and “The Crabbers" are two of Mr. Hook's 
most characteristic and popular paintings. The latter 
shows a boat seen from above, speeding away from 
the spectator, only half of it being still in sight; in 
it are two weather-beaten men, the younger one pull¬ 
ing at the oars, while the older man endeavours to 
disentangle a fine crab from its basket-cage- The 
crab feels that there is something uncomfortable in 
this proceeding, and he holds on vigorously by one 
of his claws; he is finely painted, and his red shell 
comes out well in the blue-green of the picture. 
In the other work, “ The Trawlers," the spectator 
looks down into a fishing-boat, where are several 
men. Their heads are handsome, but look as if 
they had been arranged and studied apart from the 
picture, and so had lost much of their sea-rough¬ 
ness ; they are engaged in sorting a pile of fish of 
all colours and sizes that lie in a confused heap in 
the bottom of the boat. It is a picturesque mass, 
but it is more likely to be profitable to the artist's 
eye than to the pocket of the fisherman, for gurnets, 
star-fish, and sepias are not held of much account 
by town fishmongers. In Mr. Hook's gentler vein 
are “ Ill Blows the Wind that Profits Nobody," and 
“The Mushroom-Seekers." The sea in the former 
of these is spirited and good. The latter picture is 
very peaceful and beautiful; in it the undulating, 
soft, grass-covered downs fade gently away into a 

blue summer sea that meets them at the horizon. 
Two children scramble after mushrooms in the fore¬ 
ground. Mr. Hook does not seem to bear sufficiently 
in mind when he paints a fish-wife that all women, 
as well as all men, have actual limbs inside their 

Of the other pictures we can mention only a few. 
The admirers of Mr. Henry Moore will find here 
some of his most characteristic sea-pieces. “ The 
Silver Streak" is a charming work, although the 
sea in the foreground is not thoroughly satisfactory. 
For his “ Summer Sea," it is a lovely exercise in the 
colour commonly called sea-green, but it is coupled 
with a raw grey sky, which is disturbing to perfect 
harmony. Much of Mr. Moore's work creates a 
feeling of disappointment in the spectator by the 
want of uniformity in his manner of painting: those 
parts which are not in themselves attractive being 
left unfinished, and so offending the eye by their 
want of balance. In his “ Outside the Harbour" 
the sea and sky agree to be in discord with Nature; 
an angry sullen air pervades both elements, as they 
unite in rocking the huge mastless hulk of a vessel 
that lies on its side, deserted and forlorn. The 
feeling of greatness, and of the might of the sea, is 
very admirably expressed. 

By Mr. Wells is an unusual winter effect at 
“ Kynance Cove," a spot much visited by artists; the 
sharply-cut rocks are so heavily covered with snow as to 
look lumpy. Of Mr. Maecallum's works, three are 
heavy and rough in texture, while the fourth, “ Low 
Tide on the Harbour Bar," is delightful. The fresh 
sea is warm with sunlight; there is a line of wooden 
piles specially arranged for the enjoyment of several 
boys who are disporting themselves in the cool waters; 
the lad who holds himself erect, with head bent 
down and hands pressed close together to make a 
dive, is truly admirable. Of Mr. Colin Hunter’s 
works, the one called “ Silver of the Sea," with its 
dim early morning light, is pretty; and “ The Island 
Harvest," with its strong evening rays on a broken 
sea, is impressive and powerfully painted. 


T HE story goes that in 1468 a certain Martin 
Ketzel—burgher and what-not of Nuremberg— 
went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. During his 
stay at Jerusalem he carefully measured the distances 
between the “ stations " on the road from the house 
of Pilate to Golgotha, intending on his return home 
to mark out similar distances from his own house 
on the hill of Nuremberg. Unfortunately, on his 

homeward journey the measurement of the first 
distance slipped from his memory, and in 1472 he 
made a second pilgrimage to recover it. At length 
he was able to accomplish his task. Having marked 
out the positions of the stations, he engaged a sculp¬ 
tor to make bas-reliefs representing the incidents in 
the Passion which were associated by tradition with 
the particular spots. His choice fell upon Adam 



Krafft, a young man of about twenty-five years of 
age, and the most rising artist of his time. These 
reliefs remain where they were placed to this day, 
though in a rather tattered condition : some of 
them having recently been restored, to their further 

the manner of a winged picture, the Entombment, 
Hanked by Christ bearing His cross, and the Resur¬ 
rection. The tomb is seen lying rather on the left, 
in the centre compartment; the weeping friends of 
Christ stand around it. The Magdalene kneels in 





■ V-'XY. 




(From the Drawing by Himself.) 

detriment. One of the principal works of Krafft was 
the Scbreyer tomb, an excellent cast of which may 
be seen at the South Kensington Museum. The 
tombs lie in a niche between two of the buttresses 
of the choir of St. Sebakfs Church. On three sides, 
against the wall of the church and the buttresses, 
are large bas-reliefs. They represent, somewhat after 

front, in an attitude manifestly exaggerated, and 
kisses the dead face. The Blessed Virgin stands on 
the far side. Alary Salome kneels at the foot of the 
grave, wringing her hands. The three crosses are 
seen behind on the right, with the thieves still hang¬ 
ing on theirs. More in front are the men who have 
helped to take dowir the body of Christ; they carry 




the crown of thorns 
and other instruments 
of the Passion. In the 
distance, on the left, 
are the walls and roofs 
of Jerusalem. The style 
of the design recalls 
Martin Schongauer’s 
engravings of the same 
subjects, and proves 
how strongly the in¬ 
fluence of the Colmar 
artist made itself felt. 
The fault of the work 
lies in the fact that it 
is throughout too pic¬ 
torial. The relief is too much crowded with details, 
and there is a want of breadth and repose about it. 
It is impossible, however, not to admire the excel¬ 
lence of the grouping and the life-like expressions 
of the figures. The artist seems to have forgotten 
that he was working in stone; he does not bring 
its particular qualities of strength into sufficient 
prominence. At great expenditure of labour, he 
carves as another might 
have moulded in clay, 
thereby losing all the 
dignity of stone. 

The same fault is 
observable in the other 
great work of the master 
preserved in Nurem¬ 
berg—the ciborium of 
the Church of St. Lau¬ 
rence. Documental evi¬ 
dence proves that the 
contract for this was 
signed in April, 149-3, 
and that the work itself 
was finished in 1500. 

The edifice—a cupboard, 
supported on a gallery 
approached by steps, 
and surmounted by a 
lofty spire — is placed 
against one of the pil¬ 
lars on the north side 
of the choir. It rises 
in three stages from the 
ground to the ceiling 
vault, and is decorated 
with numerous details 
of sculpture and bas- 
relief. The gallery near 
the ground is carried on 
the shoulders of three 

kneeling 1 figures- 

o o 

trait sculptures, re¬ 
presenting the artist 
himself and his two 
apprentices. The whole 
is remarkable for the 
lightness and com¬ 
plexity of its design, 
and for the minute 
care with which the 
details are executed. 

The principle, never¬ 
theless, of the construc¬ 
tion is false, and con¬ 
tradicts the nature of 
stone. Shafts and pin¬ 
nacles are twisted and bent, as though formed of 
some pliable material. The common talk of Kr a fit’s 
day used to say that he knew how to soften stone, 
bend it, and then make it hard again. All his sculp¬ 
tures have the appearance of plaster models. 

The artist whose name is most generally known in 
connection with Nuremberg was undoubtedly Peter 
Vischer. He was probably born somewhat before 

the year 1460. In 1489 



lie became a master, 
and set to work as a 
bronze founder. His 
period of activity di¬ 
vides itself naturally 
into three parts. Up to 
the year 1497 he held 
fast by the old German 
models, the orders he 
received being for the 
most part for tombs, 
episcopal and other. 
Erom 1497 to 1506 he 
passed through a stage 
of transition. From 1506 
to January 7, 1529, 

when he died, he fol¬ 
lowed eagerly along the 
lines marked out by the 
Italians of the Renais¬ 
sance. It is to the work 
of this last period that 
most credit has usually 
been given. 

From what source 
did Peter receive the 
Italian influence? San- 
drart says that he spent 
some years in Italy him¬ 
self ; and this is not 
at all impossible. It is, 



at all events, certain that his eldest son went there 
during his If anclerjahre, and brought home with 
him many drawings, of which, no doubt, the father 
afterwards availed himself; for father and sons, with 
their wives and families, all dwelt and worked happily 
together under the same roof, as was the good custom 
of Nuremberg in the olden time. 

The most conspicuous production of this third 
period of Peter Yischer’s life, and the most famous of 
all his works, was the bronze shrine of St. Sebald, 
within which the dust of the Frankonian apostle 
was laid. It remains to this day in perfect preserva¬ 
tion ; and there is an excellent cast of it in the South 
Kensington Museum. Two rows of four pillars 
support a canopy, under which the sarcophagus lies 
upon an oblong table. Each bay of the canopy is 
surmounted by a short spire, that over the centre, 
the highest, being crowned by a ball, upon which 
stands a figure of the child Christ. Within the bevels 
of the arches, on brackets fastened to the pillars, are 
statuettes of the twelve Apostles; and for excellence 
of workmanship and harmony of design it would be 
difficult to surpass them. The longer faces of the 
table which supports the sarcophagus bear bas-reliefs, 
representing' the miracles performed by the saint. 
In niches, one at each end of the table, are statuettes 
of the saint and of the artist in his working clothes, 
girt with leathern apron and hammer in hand. Scat¬ 
tered about the work are many other figures of men, 
children, and animals; clustering on the ledges of 
the table and of the slab upon which it rests, or 
perched up amongst the confused ornament at the top. 
For feet, the monument rests upon a number of great 
carven likenesses of snails, with a grotesque at each 
corner. There are in all about “ seventy fantastic 

representations of genii, mermaids, animals, &c., 
mingled with flowers and foliage/'’ 

Peter Yiseller was by no means an idle man, and 
a large number of tombs, statuettes, and bronze or¬ 
naments from his workshop have come down to us. 
They all prove him to have possessed a lively ima¬ 
gination, great power of realisation, and an intense 
sympathy with the brute creation. His little bronze 
dogs are unsurpassable. He was withal a genial 
man, if Neudbrffer’s account of the artist Lindenast 
is to be believed. He says :—“ I have added him 
all the more gladly to my list of artists because he 
and Peter Viseher the redsmith, and Adam Krafft 
the stonemason, developed together, and were like 
brothers to each other, meeting together in their 
manhood on all holidays, as though they were still 
apprentices, and practising drawing together; and so, 
without feasting or drinking, they returned to their 
homes in friendly and brotherly fashion.” 

The third well-known sculptor of Nuremberg 
was Veit Stoss. He worked chiefly in wood, in the 
handling of which he attained a great facility. Now 
and again he tried his hand at sculpture in stone, 
but never with any success ; he always endeavoured 
to treat it as though it were wood, and, naturally, 
fell into all kinds of littlenesses and mannerisms. 
The east side of the choir of St. Sebald’s contains 
three stone bas-reliefs of this kind, deserving but 
little praise. The same artist’s wood-carvings are, 
however, very good. The subjects which he treated 
most happily were figures of countrymen carrying 
their goods to market, and so forth. He failed 
whenever he attempted to rise to higher regions, 
and his religious pieces are remarkable only for their 
signal want of success. 

But Nuremberg was no less remarkable for her 
painters than for her sculptors. The greatest of 
all German artists—Albert Diirer—seems, indeed, to 
belong more to the world than to any town; 
his genius was cosmopolitan; nevertheless, the 
works even of his latest days bear upon their 
faces the traces of the master from whom 
he learnt the principles of his 
craft. This was Michael Wol- 
gemut. He was born, as we 
learn from a portrait of him by 
Diirer now at Munich, in the 
year 1434. As a painter he 
soon earned a wide and well- 
deserved renown. Several of his 
paintings have come down to 
us, the most representative being 
the “ Schwabach retable.” The 
centi’e of this, as was usual at 
the time, consisted of a group 
of carved wooden figures, which, 





Tiie Madonna at the Foot of the Cross.” (Life size. Carved in Wood. Artist unknown .) 




as well as the background, were probably coloured by 
Wolgemut. The wings, at all events, were painted 


by nim; and did no other work of his remain, they 
would be sufficient proof of the master's power, of 
the firmness of his hand, and the masculine tendency 
of his thought. It was the possession of these 
qualities that fitted him so well to be the teacher of 
a man like Differ. He lived long enough to see the 
growth of his pupil's fame, and died, as we learn 
from Neudorffer, in 1519. 

But Wolgemut's name is more likely to be re¬ 
membered in connection with the rising arts of the 
wood-cutter and engraver than with that of painting. 
In 1491 an edition of the Schatziehalter —a series of 
symbolic lessons from Christian history—was pub¬ 
lished by Koburger of Nuremberg. It was illustrated 
with ninety-one full-page woodcuts, the designs of 
Which had been furnished by Wolgemut. The book 
immediately achieved an immense popularity, and 
proved a great success. The woodcuts were a long 
way in advance of anything that had been seen 
before; they showed a great variety of invention, 
combined with an unwonted freedom and movement 
in the figures. The wood-cutting was, indeed, poor; 
but that was not the fault of the designs. 

Towards the end of the same year, Sebald Schreyer 
—he of the tomb at St. Sebald's—and Sebastian 
Kammermeister, contracted with Wolgemut to de¬ 
sign cuts to illustrate the great Weltchronik, by Dr. 

Hartmann Schedel, which they proposed to publish. 
The work was finished in the astoundingly short 
period of two years; it was published at the same 
time both in Latin and German. It contained 
hundreds of cuts, views of towns, portraits of 
famous men, pictures of events, battles, sieges, and 
the like. Notwithstanding that many of the blocks 
are used again and again—the same view often re¬ 
presenting some twelve different towns—the book 
was an immense advance on anything that had 
preceded it. Edition after edition was called for 
and at once exhausted, and the Nuremberg Chronicle 
was copied and imitated all over Europe. Its pub¬ 
lication marks an epoch in the history of printing. 

Wolgemut was also a great engraver. Till quite 
recently a large number of engravings, known by 
the signature “ W," which appears on them, were 
considered to be the work of a certain Wenceslas 
d'Olmutz, copied from plates by the more famous 
engravers Martin Schongauer and Albert Diirer. 
Recent investigation, however, has shown that all 
these prints are the work of Wolgemut, who, on 
the one hand, copied Martin Schongauer, and, on 
the other, was copied, not without some altera¬ 
tions, by his pupil Diirer. Some of Wolgemut's 
engravings are copies of pictures by a master of the 
school of Stephan Lochner. But in his day the 
star of Cologne was paling before the increasing 
brightness of the fame of the Flemish masters, 
whose influence was yearly making itself more widely 
felt. Before this influence Wolgemut fell, and he 
became one of 
the principal 
agents in dis¬ 
seminating it 
through the 
south of Ger¬ 

It is to 
Albert Diirer, 
however, with 
his masculine 
power and his 
wide grasp of 
thought, that 
the student of 
the arts of Nu¬ 
remberg will 
devote the 
largest part 
of his atten¬ 
tion. He was 
born in that 
town in 1741, the son of a Hungarian father, a 
goldsmith, who had come to settle there some six¬ 
teen years before. When young Albert was of an 




age to be apprenticed, there was some 
talk of sending him to Colmar, to 
Schongauer; but the master died, and he was placed 
under the charge of Wolgemnt instead. In 1490 he 
was ready to start on the period of wandering which 
was prescribed to all young craftsmen before they 
were admitted to become masters. Whither he went 
we do not know—probably to Italy; in 1494 he was 
back in Nuremberg again. Three years later we find 
him engraving his first known plate. Numerous 
pictures at this period came from his hands, and 
his fame quickly spread throughout all lands. In 
1506 he undertook a journey to Venice, where he 
stayed for some months. His letters, written from 
that town to his friend Pirkheimer, remain to us, 
and form a fund of the most valuable information. 
From Venice he went to Bologna, and thence re¬ 
turned home again. For fourteen years he remained 
at home hard at work, enjoying the friendship of all 
the most eminent men of his day. He corresponded 
with Raphael, who sent him sketches “ to show him 
his hand/'’ as Martin Schongauer and Perugino 
had done before. He numbered amongst his friends 
Erasmus, Melancthon, Lucas van Leyden, and most 
of the great men of the Reformation. His influence 
made itself felt even in Italy, where Marcantonio, 
fulfilling his mission of “ making the north familiar 
with Italian, and Italy with northern fashions of 
art” (Vasari), engraved from his designs. In the 
year 1 520 he went, with his wife, on a journey to 
the Netherlands, to get a better view of the work 
of his great Flemish predecessors, and the diary of 
what he did and saw is still in existence. In July, 
1524, he returned to Nuremberg, where he died in 
April, 1528. 

Durer is the pivot about which the art of the 
north of Europe at this period turns. He gathered 

up into himself all the 
various threads of style 
which were lying- about. 
His style bears traces of 
that of the school 
of Cologne; through 
Wolgemut and 
Schongauer he re¬ 
ceived the impress 
of the school of Van 
Eyck ; and his own 
journey to the Ne¬ 
therlands enabled 
him at a later time to drink in all 
that they could teach of the grandeur 
and majesty of simple veracity and 
truth. Lastly, he borrowed from 
the Italians much of their dignity 
and some of their grace. He had 
looked upon the breadth of then- 
walls, rich with the handicraft of 
generations of earnest, beautiful thinking men, and 
bright in the clear sunlight of the south ; and he 
had not looked in vain. 

But in learning from others he never became a 
servile imitator ; whatever he learnt-he made his own, 
and when it came forth from him once more it bore 
the stamp of his own powerful genius. Much there was 
in the elegant minded Italians with which he, with 
his hard northern clay, could never wholly sympathise, 
conld never even partly adopt. All this he boldly casts 
aside. When he copies the engravings of Mantegna 
or Baccio Baldini, he thrusts out their grace, their 
passion, and their peace, and puts in their stead all 
the energy, the 
force,often the 
ugliness, which 
his strong hand 
loved to trace. 

As in Durer the 
varied influen¬ 
ces of different 
schools centred, 
so too from him 
radiated a con¬ 
tinually in - 
creasing Hood 
of influence, 
which daily 
became more 
strong. FI is 

works were the hangman’s passage. 

eagerly sought 

for in all countries; the engravings, which he made 
in considerable numbers, enabled him to reach very 
much further than most of his predecessors, and he 




clothed themselves in new 
forms, and spread abroad 
over the earth ; and amidst the cries 
for reform, the retrograde struggles of 
an ill-timed conservatism, the death- 
agonies of the old order, the throes of a world in 

came face to face with a much larger 
number of men. His prints found 
their way wherever the streams of 
commerce flowed; and the name of 
the engraver of the Frankonian city 
became almost a household word 
throughout the more civilised parts 
of Europe. 

But the student of art who 
would see the works of Diirer need 
not go to Nuremberg for them. 

Very few remain in his native town. 

Ilis last, and perhaps his greatest, 
picture, representing the Four Temperaments 
under the guise of apostles, which he presented 
to the town before his death, now forms one of the 
treasures of the Munich Collection; and, like it, most 
of his greatest works have found an honoured home 
in the galleries of other towns. His engravings are 
widely scattered and carefully preserved; his drawings 
are many of them photographed, and may be seen by 
all. All that concerns him is interesting alike to 
the student of art and history, for he was one of the 
leading characters of a great age. He lived in the 
midst of an eager time, and in him the feelings of 
his day found one of their most prominent ex¬ 

The fifteenth century had gone, the new epoch 
was at hand, the trumpet was sounded, and the dead 
were raised from the silent past. A flood of old ideas 

travail with a new era, Diirer and many another great 
artist lived and worked. There was Cranach at the 
Court of Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, 
the keen-sighted, wrinkled-faced, fat-cheeked pro¬ 
tector of Luther, the defier of popes and emperors 
—the friend he, too, of Diirer; there was Holbein 
at Augsburg, with its Kaiser Max—townsman and 
Emperor; and there was Diirer at Nuremberg. These 
men, and others like them, working hard and fear¬ 
lessly along the lines which their own feelings marked 
out for them, have made the names of the towns in 
which they lived, and the lives and thoughts of 
whose inhabitants they expressed, memorable for 
many days. W. M. Conway. 



I HAVE here before me an edition of the “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress,” bound in green, without a date, and 
described as “illustrated by nearly three hundred 
engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.” On the out¬ 
side it is lettered, “ Bagster’s Illustrated Edition; ” 
and after the author’s apology, facing the first page 
of the tale, a folding, pictorial “ Plan of the Road ” 
• is marked as “ drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,” 
and engraved by J. Basire. No further information 
is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had 
judged the work too unimportant; and we are still 

left ignorant whether or 
not we owe the woodcuts 
in the body of the volume 
to the same hand that 
drew the plan. It seems, 
however, more than pro¬ 
bable. The literal par¬ 
ticularity of mind which, 

in the map, laid down the flower-plots in the devil’s 
garden, and carefully introduced the court-house in 
the town of Vanity, is closely paralleled in many 
of the cuts; and in both, the architecture of the 
buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a 
kindred and entirely English air. Whoever he was, 
the author of these wonderful little pictures may lay 
claim to be the best illustrator of Bunyan. They 
are not only good illustrations, like so many others; 
but they are like so few, good illustrations of 
Bunyan. Their spirit, in defect and quality, is still 
the same as his own. 

The designer also has 
lain down and dreamed 
a dream, as literal, as 
quaint, and almost as 
apposite as Bunyan’s ; 
and text and pictures 
make but the two sides 





of the same homespun yet impassioned story. To 
do justice to the designs, it will be necessary to 
say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about 
the masterpiece which they adorn. All allegories 
have a tendency to escape from the purpose of 
their creators; and as the characters and incidents 
become more and more interesting in themselves, 
the moral, which these were to show forth, falls 
more and more into neglect. An architect may 
command a wreath of vine leaves round the cornice 
of a monument; but if, as each leaf came from the 
chisel, it took proper life and fluttered freely on the 
wall, and if the vine grew, and the building were 
hidden over with foliage and fruit, the architect 
would stand in much the same situation as the 
writer of allegories. The “ Faery Queen ” was an 
allegory, I am willing to believe; but it survives as 
an imaginative tale in incomparable verse. The case 
of Bunyan is widely different; and yet in this also 
Allegory, poor nymph, although never quite forgotten, 
is sometimes rudely thrust against the wall. Bunyan 
was fervently iu earnest; with “ his fingers in his 
ears, he ran on,” straight for his mark. He tells 
us himself, in the conclusion to the first part, that 
he did not fear to raise a laugh; indeed, he feared 
nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly 
served in this by a certain rustic privilege of his 
style, which, like the talk of strong uneducated men, 
when it does not impress by its force, still charms 
by its simplicity. The mere story and the allegorical 
design enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. He believed 
iu both with an energy of faith that was capable 
of moving mountains. And we have to remark in 
him, not the parts where inspiration fails and is 
supplied by cold and merely decorative invention, 
but the parts where faith has grown to be credulity, 
and bis characters become so real to him that he 
forgets the end of their creation. We can follow 
him step by step, into the trap which he lays for 
himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant 
literality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts 
him in an inconsistency. The allegories of the 
Interpreter and of the Shepherds of the Delectable 
Mountains are all actually performed, like stage plays, 
before the pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great Grace 
visibly “tumbles bills about with his words.” Adam 
the First has his condemnation written visibly on 
his forehead, so that Faithful reads it. At the very 
instant the net closes round the pilgrims, “ the white 
robe falls from the black man’s body.” Despair 
“ getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel; ” it was 
in “ sunshiny weather ” that he had his fits ; and the 
birds in the grove about the House Beautiful, “ our 
country birds,” only sing their little pious verses 
“ at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun 
shines warm.” “ I often,” says Piety, “ go out to 

hear them; we also ofttimes keep them tame in our 
house.” The post between Beulah and the Celestial 
City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear iu country 
places. Madam Bubble, that “ tall comely dame, 
something of a swarthy complexion, in very pleasant 
attire but old”—“gives you a smile at the end of 
each sentence”—a real woman, she; we all know her. 
Christian dying “ gave Mr. Standfast a ring,” for 
no possible reason in the allegory, merely because the 
touch was human and affecting. Look at Great- 
heart, with his soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I 
had almost called them; with his taste in weapons ; 
his delight in any that “he found to be a man of 
his hands; ” his chivalrous point of honour, letting 
Giant Maul get up again when he was down, a thing 
fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above all, 
with his language in the inimitable tale of Mr. 
Fei iring : “ I thought I should have lost my man ”— 
“chicken-hearted”—“at last he came in, and I 
will say that for my lord, he carried it wonderful 
lovingly to him.” This is no Independent minister; 
this is a stout, honest, big-busted ancient, adjusting 
bis shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as 
he speaks. Last and most remarkable, “ My sword,” 
says the dying Valiant-for-the-tiuth, he in whom 
Great-heart delighted, “ my sword I leave to him 
that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my 
courage and skill to him that can get it.” And after 
this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox than was 
ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we are 
told that “all the trumpets sounded for him on 
the other side.” 

In every page the book is stamped with the 
same energy of vision and the same energy of belief. 
The quality is equally and indifferently displayed 
in the spirit of the fighting, the tenderness of the 
pathos, the startling vigour and strangeness of the 
incidents, the natural strain of the conversations, 
and the humanity and charm of the characters. 
Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, 
the delights of Beulah or the Celestial City, Aixdlyon 
and my Lord Hate-good, Great-heart and Air. 
Worldly Wiseman, all have been imagined with the 
same clearness, all written of with equal gusto and 
precision, all created in the same mixed element, 
of simplicity that is almost comical, and art that, 
for its purpose, is faultless. 

It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat 
down to his drawings. He is by nature a Bunyan 
of the pencil. He, too, will draw anything, from a 
butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the courts of 
Heaven. “ A Lamb for Supper ” is the name of one 
of his designs, “ Their Glorious Entry ” of another. 
He has the same disregard for the ridiculous, and en¬ 
joys somewhat of the same privilege of style, so that 
we are pleased even when we laugh the most. He is 




literal to the verge of folly. If dust is 
to be raised from the unswept parlour, 
you may be sure it will “ fly abun¬ 
dantly ” in the picture. If Faithful 
is to lie “as dead” before Moses, dead 
he shall lie with a warrant—dead and 
stiff like granite; nay (and here the 
artist must enhance upon the symbolism 
of the author), it is with the identical stone tables 
of the law that Moses fells the sinner. Good and 
bad people, whom we at once distinguish in the 
text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant- 
for-truth on the one hand, as against By-ends, 
Sir Flaving Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the 
other, are in these drawings as simply distinguished 
by their costume. Good people, when not armed 
cap-a-pie, wear a speckled tunic girt about the 
waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. Bad 
people swagger in tail-coats and chimney-pots, a 
few with knee-breeches, but the large majority in 
trousers, and for all the world like guests at a garden 
party. Worldly Wiseman alone, by some inex¬ 
plicable quirk, stands before Christian in laced hat, 

embroidered waistcoat, 
and trunk - hose. But 
above all examples of 
this artist’s intrepidity, 
commend me to the print 
entitled “Christian Finds 
it Deep.” “A great dark¬ 
ness and horror,” says the 
text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless 
death-bed with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes 
the sorrows and conflicts of his hero. How to repre¬ 
sent this worthily, the artist knew not; and yet he 
was determined to represent it somehow. This was 
how he did: Hopeful is still shown to his neck above 
the water of death; but Christian has bodily disap¬ 
peared, and a blot of solid blackness indicates his place. 

As you continue to look at these pictures, about 
an inch square for the most part, sometimes printed 
three or more to the page, and each having a 
printed legend of its own however trivial the event 
recorded, you will soon become aware of two things : 
’first, that the man can draw, and, second, that he 
possesses the gift of an imagination. “ Obstinate 
reviles,” says the legend; and you should see Obsti- 

yearning to go- 






warily retraces his steps; ” 
and there is Christian, 
postingthrough the plain, 
terror and speed in every 
muscle. “ Mercy yearns 
to go” shows you a plain 
interior with packing 
going forward, and, right 
in the middle, Mercy 

every line of the girl’s 
In “ The Chamber 
called Peace ” we see a simple Eng¬ 
lish room, bed with white curtains, 
window valance and door, as may be 
found in many thousand unpreten¬ 
tious houses; but far off, through 
the open window, we behold the sun 
uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails 
it with his hand : 

“ Where am I now ? Is this the love and care 
Of Jesus for the men that pilgrims are, 

Thus to provide that I should he forgiven 
And dwell already the next door to Heaven P” 

A page or two further, from the top of the House 
Beautiful, the damsels point his gaze toward the 
Delectable Mountains : “ The Prospect,” so the cut is 
ticketed—and I shall be surprised, if on less than a 
square inch of paper you can show me one so wide 
and fair. Down a cross road on an English plain, a 
cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel shaw 
upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her 
fair enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in hand, half 
pauses. The cut is per¬ 
fect as a symbol : the 
giddy movement of the 
sorceress, the uncertain 
poise of the man struck 
to the heart by a temp¬ 
tation, the contrast of 
that even plain of life 
whereon he journeys 

with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton—the 
artist who invented and portrayed this had not 
merely read Bunyan, he had also thoughtfully lived. 
The Delectable Mountains—I continue skimming the 
first part—are not on the whole happily rendered. 
Once and once only the note is struck, when Christian 
and Hopeful are seen coming, shoulder-high, through 
a thicket of green shrubs—box, perhaps, or perfumed 
nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the 
hills stand ranged against the sky. A little further, 
and we come to that masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight 
into life, the Enchanted Ground; where, in a few 
traits, he has set down the latter end of such a 
number of the would-be good; where his allegory 
goes so deep that, to people looking seriously on life, 
it cuts like satire. The 
invention lies, of course, 
far out of the way of 
drawing; only one fea¬ 
ture, the great tedium 
of the land, the growing 
weariness in well-doing, 
may be somewhat repre¬ 
sented in a symbol. The 

true significance of this 





pilgrims are near the 
end : “ Two Miles Yet/ - ’ 
says the legend. The 
road goes ploughing up 
and down over a rolling 1 
heath; the wayfarers, 
with outstretched arms, 
are already sunk to the 
knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they have 
just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from 
overhead a great, piled, summer cumulus, as of a 
slumberous summer afternoon, besliadows them : two 
miles ! it might be hundreds. In dealing with the 
Land of Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably 
behind the text, but in the distant prospect of the 
Celestial City more than regains his own. You will re¬ 
member when Christian and Hopeful “ with desire fell 
sick.” “Effect of the Sunbeams” is the artist’s title. 
Against the sky, upon a cliffy mountain, the radiant 
temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent woods; 
they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the 
splendour—one prostrate on his face, one kneeling, 
and with hands ecstatically lifted—yearn with passion 

after that immortal city. 
Turn the page, and we 
behold them walking by 
the very shores of death; 
Heaven, from this nigher 
view, has risen half-way 
to the zenith, and sheds 
a wider glory; and the 
two pilgrims, dark against 
that brightness, walk and sing out of the fulness of 
their hearts. No cut more thoroughly illustrates at 
once the merit and the weakness of the artist. Each 
pilgrim sings with a book in his grasp—a family 
Bible at the least for bigness; tomes so recklessly 
enormous, that our second impulse is to laughter. 
And yet that is not the first thought, nor perhaps 
the last. Something in the attitude of the manikins 
—faces they have none, they are too small for that— 
something in the way they swing these monstrous 
volumes to their singing, something, perhaps, bor¬ 
rowed from the text, some subtle differentiation from 
the cut that went before and the cut that follows 
after—something, at least, speaks clearly of a fearful 
joy, of Heaven seen from the death-bed, of the horror 
of the last passage no less than of the glorious 
coming home. There is 
that in the action of one 
of them which always re¬ 
minds me, with a differ¬ 
ence, of that haunting 
last glimpse of Thomas 
Idle, travelling to Tyburn 
in the cart. Next come 



the Shining Ones,wooden 
and trivial enough ; the 
pilgrims pass into the 
river; the blot, already 
mentioned, settles over 
and obliterates Christian. 
In two more cuts we be¬ 
hold them drawing nearer 
to the other shore; and then, between two radiant angels, 
one of whom points upward, we see them mounting 
in new weeds, their former lendings left behind them 
on the inky river. More angels meet them; Heaven 
is displayed, and if no better, certainly no worse, 
than it has been shown by others—a place, at least, 
infinitely populous and glorious with light—a place 
that haunts solemnly the hearts of children. And 
then this symbolic draughtsman once more strikes 
into his proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first 
part. In the first the gates close, black against the 
glory struggling from within. The second shows us 
Ignorance—alas ! poor Arminian !—hailing, in a sad 
twilight, the ferryman Vain Hope ; and in the third 
we behold him, bound hand and foot and black 
already with the hue of 
his eternal fate, carried 
high over the mountain- 
tops of the world by two 
angels of the anger of 
the Lord. “ Carried to 
Another Place,” the artist 
enigmatically names his 
plate—a terrible design. 

Wherever he touches on the black side of the 
supernatural, his pencil grows more daring and in¬ 
cisive. He has many true inventions in the perilous 
and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares 
realised. It is not easy to select the best; some may 
like one and some another: the nude, depilated devil 
bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate ; 
the scroll of flying horrors that hang over Christian 
by the Mouth of Hell; the horned shade that comes 
behind him whispering blasphemies; the daylight 
breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the moun¬ 
tains and falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; 
Christian’s further progress along the causeway, be¬ 
tween the two black pools, where, at every yard or 
two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by— 
loathsome white devilkins harbouring close under 

the bank to work the 
springes, Christian himself 
pausing and pricking with 
his sword’s point at the 
nearest noose, and pale 
discomfortable mountains 
rising on the further side ; 
or yet again, the two ill- 







favoured ones that beset 
the first of Christian's 
journey, with the frog¬ 
like structure of the 
skull, the frog-like lim¬ 
berness of limbs—crafty 
slippery lustful looking 
devils, drawn always in 
outline as though possessed of a dim, infernal lumi¬ 
nosity. Horrid fellows are they, one and all ; horrid 
fellows and horrific scenes. In another spirit that 
Good-Conscience “ to whom Mr. Honest had spoken 
in his lifetime,” a cowled, grey, awful figure, one 
hand pointing to the heavenly shore, realises, I will 
not say all, but some at least of the strange 
pressiveness of Banyan's 
words. It is no easy 
nor no pleasant thing 
to speak in one's lifetime 
with Good-Conscience ; 
he is an austere, un¬ 
earthly friend, whom 
may be Torquemada 
knew; and the folds of 
his raiment are not merely claustral, but have some¬ 
thing of the horror of the pall. Be not afraid, 
however; with the hand of that appearance Mr. 
Honest will get safe across. 

Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best 
displays himself. He loves to look at either side of 
a thing : as, for instance, when he shows us both sides 

of the wall —“ Grace In¬ 
extinguishable'' on the 
one side, with the devil 
vainly pouring buckets 
on the flame, and “ The 
Oil of Grace ” on the 
other, where the Holy 
Spirit, vessel in hand, 
still secretly supplies the 
fire. He loves, also, to show us the same event 
twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous photo¬ 
graphs at the interval of but a moment. So we 
have first, the whole troop of Pilgrims coming up to 
Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand 
and parleying; and next, the same cross-roads, from 
a more distant view, the convoy now scattered and 
looking safely and curiously on, and Yaliant hand¬ 
ing over for inspection his 
“ right Jerusalem blade.” 

It is true that this de¬ 
signer has no great care 
after consistency : Apoll- 
yon’s spear is laid by, 
his quiver of darts will 
disappear, whenever they 



might hinder the de¬ 
signer’s freedom ; and 
the fiend's tail is blobbed 
or forked at his good 
pleasure. But this is 
not unsuitable to the 
illustration of the fer¬ 
vent Bunyan, breathing 

hurry and momentary inspiration. He, with his 
hot purpose, hunting sinners with the lasso, shall 
himself forget the things that he has written yester¬ 
day. He shall first slay Heedless in the Valley of 
the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in 
his sleep, as if nothing had happened, in an arbour 
on the Enchanted Ground. And again, in his 

rhymed prologue, he 
shall assign some of 
the glory of the siege 
of Doubting Castle to 
his favourite Valiant-for- 
the-Truth, who did not 
meet with the besiegers 
till long after, at that 
dangerous corner by 
Deadman's Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and 
freedoms, there is a power shown in these sequences 
of cuts : a power of joining on one action or one 
humour to another; a power of following out the 
moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends en¬ 
gendered by the artist's fancy; a power of sustained 
continuous realisation, step by step, in nature’s order, 
that can tell a story, 
in all its ins and outs, 
its pauses and surprises, 
fully and figuratively, 
like the art of words. 

One such sequence is 
the fight of Christian and 
Apollyon—six cuts,weird 
and fiery, like the text. 

The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish figure; 
but the devil covers a multitude of defects. There 
is no better devil of the conventional order than 
our artist's Apollyon, with his mane, his wings, his 
bestial legs, his changing and terrifying expression, 
his infernal energy to slay. In cut the first you see 
him afar off, still obscure in form, but already for¬ 
midable in suggestion. Cut the second, “ The Fiend 

in Discourse,” represents 
him, not reasoning, rail¬ 
ing rather, shaking his 
spear at the pilgrim, his 
shoulder advanced, his 
tail writhing in the air, 
his foot ready for a spring, 
while Christian stands 





back a little, timidly defensive. The third illustrates 
these magnificent words : “ Then Apollyon straddled 
quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, I 
am void of fear in this matter: prepare thyself to die; 
for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no 
further: here will I spill thy soul ! And with that 
he threw a flaming dart at his breast.” In the cut 
he throws a dart with either hand, belching pointed 
flames out of his mouth, spreading his broad vans, 
and straddling the while across the path, as only a 
fiend can straddle who has just sworn by his infernal 
den. The defence will not be long against such vice, 
such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in the 
fourth cut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his 
victim, sped by foot and pinion, and roaring as he 
leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the battle ; 
Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, 
and dealt that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still 
stretched upon him, but “ giving back, as one that 
has received his mortal wound/'’ The raised head, 
the bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, 
the one wing relaxed in agony, all realise vividly 
these words of the text. In the sixth and last, the 
trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen kneeling 
with clasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest 
and among the shivers of the darts ; while, just at the 
margin, the hinder quarters and the tail of Apollyon 
are whisking off, indignant and discomfited. 

In one point only do these pictures seem to me 
unworthy of the text, and that point is one rather of 
the difference of arts than the difference of artists. 
Throughout his best and worst, in his highest and 
most divine imaginations as in the narrowest sallies 
of his sectarianism, the human-hearted piety of 
Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses the 
reader. Through no art beside the art of words can 
the kindness of a man’s affections be expressed. In 
the cuts you shall find faithfully parodied the quaint¬ 
ness and the power, the triviality and the surprising 
freshness of* the author’s fancy; there you shall find 
him outstripped in ready symbolism, and the art of 
bringing things essentially invisible before the eyes; 
but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be 
made in love with piety, the book must be read and 
not the prints examined. 

Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; 
nor can I dismiss in any other words than those of 
gratitude a series of pictures which have, to one at 
least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from 
childhood up, and shown him, through all his 
years. Great-heart lunging at Giant Maul, and Apoll¬ 
yon breathing fire at Christian, and every turn and 
town along the road to the Celestial City, and 
that bright place itself, seen as to a stave of music, 
shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of 
the world. Robert Louis Stevenson. 


N Japan there may soon be no 
such a thing as Japanese art. 
The national conventionality 
which found, not a hundred 
years since, its highest and 
fullest expression in the work 
of Hokusai, greatest of all the 
masters of the Middle King¬ 
dom, lias been in danger of 
becoming, almost within the last decade, a com¬ 
plete anachronism. The Japanese, whatever his 
dexterity, and however exquisite his technical ac¬ 
complishment, will in that case be an artist no 
longer. His imagination will have ceased to operate 
naturally and sincerely on the old lines and in the 
old key, and he will never again be able to deliver 
himself to any purpose in the old terms. It is 
possible, of course, that some day or other—cen¬ 
turies hence, it may be—Japan will develop a new 
vein of imaginativeness, and invent a new con¬ 
ventionality to serve as the basis of fresh artistic 
achievement. It is possible that, in obedience to 

Western demands, she may also bear a son who 
will do by the art of Masonobu and Shiobun as 
Mr. Burne-Joues has done by the art of the Pre- 
Raphaelites and Mr. Morris by the art of Geoffrey 
Chaucer. Meanwhile she is letting herself he 
seduced by the gaudy commonplaces of chromo-litho¬ 
graphy, and it is only in Europe that Japanese art is 
either studied or esteemed. In Europe, however, it is 
more than a fashion, it is almost a craze. Several 
painters of repute—Mr. Whistler, Mr. Tissot, Mr. 
Albert Moore, for instance—have allowed themselves 
to be influenced, more or less deeply and permanently, 
by its theory and practice. There are special shops for 
the sale of Japanese wares; there are collectors who 
cannot have enough of Japanese bronzes and lacquers 
and picture-books; the Japanese dado has become 
a household word, and the Japanese fan a household 
essential, wherever scientific decoration is attempted. 
Nor is this popularity at all unreasonable or unjust. 
Japanese art is certainly one of the most inter¬ 
esting and attractive manifestations of a nation’s 
genius that the world has ever seen. To refrain from 



it altogether is easy enough, perhaps; but seriously 
to study it without admiration and delight is im¬ 
possible. It is true that, logically stated, the 
Japanese convention is almost a caricature of that 
which prevails in the West. In Japanese art such 
qualities as order and measure and rhythm, as dignity 
of style and beauty of form, as balance in com¬ 
position and symmetry in design, are practically non¬ 
existent. Its essentials are waywardness and unex¬ 
pectedness ; its fundamental principle is one of caprices 
and surprises. It is incapable-—save, perhaps, to 
some extent in colour—of the harmonious and com¬ 
plete development of a single dominant idea; for 
nothing absolute is included in its scheme, and its 
ambitions and processes are all arbitrary as its cul¬ 
minations are all eccentric : so that to Western eyes 
its aim is only the co-ordination, necessarily imper¬ 
fect, of a number of interests more or less alien and 
elements more or less scattered and remote. But its 
technical qualities are so many and so engaging; 
it is so full of grace and ease and spontaneity, 
of beauty and suggestiveness, of romantic inspira¬ 
tion and natural truth, of fantasy and humour and 
invention; it is at once so national and so personal, 
so thoroughly characteristic of a people and a, tradi¬ 
tion and so plainly significant of individual genius 
and accomplishment, that it had but to be known 
to become forthwith a part in the universal inherit¬ 
ance, and to meet with recognition as instant and 
respectful, in its kind and degree, as that awarded 
to the master-work of Italy and Greece. 

This being the case, such a book as Mr. T. W. 
Cutler’s “ Grammar of Japanese Ornament and De¬ 
sign ” (B. T. Batsford, High Holborn) is a book 
to be heartily welcomed. It is, if I mistake not, 
the first of its kind in English, though it is speedily 
to be followed by a complete and elaborate “ History 
of Japanese Art,” by Messrs. Anderson and Satow. 
More than that, it is of itself a publication of great 
merit and attractiveness: being nothing less than 
folio in size, and comely alike in aspect and in 
sentiment, in paper and type and adornment. It 
is admirably illustrated with upwards of fifty 
plates, executed in colour and monochrome, by 
photo-lithography, and with some six or eight 
spirited woodcuts besides. There is no doubt that iu 
every art-library pretending to fulness and compre¬ 
hensiveness it will take its place forthwith, as a 
necessary and a standard work. 

Mr. Cutler, who has been working at his subject 
for eighteen or twenty years, introduces his plates 
in some readable and sufficient chapters of history 
and criticism. The story of aesthetics in Japan is 
curious in itself, and gives rise to some curious re¬ 
flections. It is evident, for instance, that of all 
successful and individual imitations the art of Japan 

is the most individual and the most successful. It 
is essentially a development of Chinese art, and cer¬ 
tain of its primary qualities have been positively 
and absolutely Chinese from first to last. It was 
in the fifth century that, under pressure from China, 
the Japanese were first awakened to an apprehension 
of the theory of art; and for seven hundred years or 
so their practice appears to have been creepingly and 
slavishly unoriginal. Not until the thirteenth cen¬ 
tury did Motomitsu’s foundation, the Yamato-ye, or 
Japanese School, begin to be. Not until the middle 
of the fifteenth century did the Kano School, of the 
famous Motonobu, arise to improve upon the practice 
of the Yamaio-ye, and produce the art-work we know. 
Not until some two hundred and fifty years had 
passed did the artists of the Middle Kingdom, led 
by Hishigawa Moronubu, and—especially—by Maru- 
yama Okiyo, endeavour to be more distinctively na¬ 
tional, and less obviously Chinese, in sentiment and 
in ambition. And not until the appearance, in the 
early years of the nineteenth century, of the gifted 
Hokusai—a Japanese Daumier, so to speak—was 
the spirit of Japanese art in very deed the spirit of 
Japan. From the twelfth century downwards, that 
is to say, Japanese art, having taken some seven 
hundred years to develop a national quality of 
any sort, has been more or less Chinese, both in 
practice and in theory; and though the imitation, 
as we all know, has been immeasurably superior 
to the thing imitated—in abundance and precision, 
in imagination and design, in intention and effect— 
it has, at the same time, remained avowedly imi¬ 
tative, in principle and in fact, and has proved the 
Japanese genius, like the French, to be a genius, not 
for originating ideas of its own, but for adapting 
and developing the ideas of others. Intimately con¬ 
nected with this extraordinary immobility in aesthetics, 
and to some extent perhaps explaining it, is the cir¬ 
cumstance that, in Japan, until the rise of Hokusai, 
who was the son of a mechanic, and whose followers 
were mostly men of the same class with himself, the 
practice of art was invariably an aristocratic amuse¬ 
ment, and that, for thirteen centuries, no Japanese 
could be an artist who was not, by breeding and 
estate, a gentleman. All the great Japanese painters, 
downwards from Kosa-no-kanaoka, founder of the 
school which bears his name, were distinguished 
amateurs merely. Motomitsu andTameyuki; Sesshiu, 
the father of all them that work in black and white; 
Moronubu, originator of popular art; Okiyo, the first 
to paint from nature ; Mitsonobu, who wrought so 
well in gold and lacquer and founded the Kosa School; 
Motonobu, son of Kano Masonobu, chief of the Kano 
School, and a potent aesthetic influence for some 
three hundred years—all were notables, men of gentle 
blood, wearing two swords, and looking down upon the 



artisans and farmers about them as humanity of a 
low and vile degree. The art of Japan, indeed, may 
he said to have been barriered about according- to a 
policy of triple isolation. It was hermetically shut 
to Western ideas; it was the inheritance of a privi¬ 
leged class; and it was confined to the practice of 
a convention which, exotic from the first, main¬ 
tained its principal features unchanged, and was 
reverenced as an absolute formula—as something 
divinely classic, so to speak—during many centuries, 
and which disappeared but with the civilisation of 
which it had been the chief pastime and adornment. 
All things considered, it must be admitted that 
what is wonderful about Japanese art is, not that 
it exists and is admirable, but that it ever existed 
at all. 

Air. Cutler tells all this, and a vast deal besides, 
in his introductory analysis. A word as to the 
plates that follow. They constitute an excellent 
course of Japanese design and ornament. They 
include examples of nearly all such modes of imagi¬ 
native expression as are appropriate to the subject : 
from specimens of the drawing copies, mathematical 
and realistic, by the imitation of which the artist 
gains his marvellous facility in design and dexterity 
in execution, to selections from the incomparable 
art of the master Hokusai; from elaborate effects 
in lacquer and embroidery and brocade to simple 
and taking designs for badges and buttons; from 
delicate landscapes to extravagant caricatures; with 
delightful hawks and kingfishers and swallows, and 
astonishing fish, and miraculous dragons, and cranes 
that are “ a wonder and a wild desire; ” with bats 
and geese and insects and crabs and bantams innu¬ 
merable ; and with all the flowers—plum blossom and 
cherry, wisteria, chrysanthemum, rose, iris, bamboo, 
peony, poppy, water-lily—of a Land of Flowers. 
There is not one that is not interesting and charm¬ 
ing ; there is not one that does not help the student 
to an understanding of the art of which it is an 

Even more interesting, in some sort, than Air. 
Cutler’s “ Grammar,” are the four volumes (B. T. 
Batsford) of the “ Fugaku Hiyaku-kei,” or “ Hundred 
Views of Fugi,” of the master Hokusai, translated 
and edited—very admirably—with explanatory notes 
and prefaces, by Frederick V. Dickins. The “ Fugaku 
Hiyaku-kei ” may fairly be called a Japanese book 
with an English commentary, inasmuch as three 
of the four volumes were designed, engraved, and 
printed—on rice paper—in Japan, while the fourth 
is made up of introductions and translations in 
explanation of the other three. To say that it is 
the masterpiece of Hokusai is to say that it is a 
wonderful bit of work. It may be described as a 
fantasia in black and white upon themes that, while 

infinitely varied, are one and all in praise of Fugi—of 
Fugi the marvellous volcano, the wonder and the glory 
of Japan. To Japan the Peerless Mountain, as it is 
called, is more than Olympus was to Greece, or than 
Arthur’s Seat is to Edinburgh. Its beginnings were 
miraculous; its history is legendary and heroic; the 
“ fame of it is unequalled throughout the Three 
Realms”—India, Japan, and China. Demons lurk 
in its fastnesses, and the gods delight to haunt its 
solitudes. Its summit, which is likened to an eisrht- 
petalled lotus, is white with eternal snows, but within 
its deeps there is fire unquenchable and divine. It 
is, as it were, a natural idol, a visible miracle, an 
actual and tangible superstition. A centre of ro¬ 
mance, there is not a poet but has sung of it, nor an 
artist but has painted it. It is honoured with a sort 
of familiar worship; for it has come to be a kind of 
homely divinity, a gigantic out-door Lar—with a 
hundred pet names, and a reputation partly epical and 
partly domestic—to the Eight Provinces it commands. 
It is found pictured “ on almost every article, 
whether for use or ornament,” says Mr. Dickins; 
and there is scarce a garden but contains its minia¬ 
ture. To Hokusai, born and bred in its shadow, 
the Peerless Mountain must have seemed admir¬ 
able indeed; and it is not surprising that, look¬ 
ing ever upon it from his house in Katshushika, 
the ward in Yedo which his name has made illus¬ 
trious, he should have deemed it worthy of the 
best he had to give. How good that was these 
“ Hundred Views ” will show. To know them is to 
know, not only the innumerable aspects of Fugi, 
but how life is lived on its slopes and at its base, 
and what manner of men and women they are in 
whose eyes it is a daily delight, and in whose hearts 
it is a lifelong veneration. Artisans and pilgrims, 
fisher-folk and woodmen, farmers and porters and 
traders, artists sketching and idlers strolling, priests 
and boatmen and pedlars, huntsmen and ostlers, 
water-parties and picnics, wolves baying the moon 
and mysterious and awful dragons, cranes in 
flocks, horses and dogs and asses, boys and puppies, 
the master has seen and understands them all. He 
moves among them, as Daumier moves among the 
bloods and traders, the stockbrokers and the raga¬ 
muffins, the follies and oddities and scoundrelisms 
of the Paris that was Balzac’s. He takes them 
in the very act of living; he catches the very spirit 
of their several natures; he depicts them, each 
with his peculiar gesture, attitude, aspect, character, 
and individuality. And he does all this with a 
mastery of design, a fecundity of invention, a 
sentiment of nature and truth, a grace, a humour, 
a wayward freshness of fancy, a quality of unex¬ 
pectedness and charm, that are in their way un¬ 
matched in black-and-white art. W. E. H. 



M R.WATTS is one of the few modem artists who 
from the beginning of their career to the pre¬ 
sent time have been consistent in their aims. The wave 
of Pre-Raphaelitism, and the succeeding waves of neo- 
mediaevalism, aesthetic¬ 
ism, and realism, have 
passed over his head and 
left him unchanged and 
unmoved. He started 
with a distinct inner 
impulse —- an artistic 
conscience of his own; 
and though no one has 
shown himself more 
widely sensitive to the 
spirit of the noblest 
schools of all time, he 
has permitted nothing 
to impair his individu¬ 
ality. In allegory or 
portrait, tiny sketch or 
colossal fresco, the ex¬ 
pression of essential 
truth has been his one 
purpose. Idealism based 
upon thorough know¬ 
ledge of material facts 
is the characteristic of 
all his work. The time 
that he spent in study¬ 
ing sculpture under Mr. 

Behnes has not only 
borne fruit in some fine 
plastic works—only one 
of which, the “Clytie,” 
is shown at the present 
exhibition—-but in all 
his pictures : very not¬ 
ably indeed in the fine 
structural quality and 
accurate modelling 1 of 
his portraits. He has 
always been devoted to 
the loftiest art. His 
earliest successes were achieved with vast historical 
cartoons which won prizes in the competitions (1843 
and 1847) for the decoration of the Houses of Parlia¬ 
ment. Evidence of his zeal in the cause of great art and 
his sense of its value in national education is found 
in his noble offer to cover the Great Hall of Huston 


Station with mural paintings without remuneration. 
His large fresco of the History of Justice in the Hall 
of Lincoln's Inn was the result of a similar proposal 
to the Honourable Society, who not only accepted 

it in the spirit in which 
it was made, but proved 
their admiration of the 
work by a present of 
£500 and a cup. 

But notwithstanding 
all these achievements, 
and the number of fine 
imaginative pictures 
that he has exhibited 
at the Royal Academy, 
the Grosvenor Gallery, 
and elsewhere, it is as 
the most intellectual 
portrait-painter of the 
day that Mr. Watts is 
best known. It was 
in 1837, being at that 
time but nineteen years 
old, that he first ex¬ 
hibited at the Royal 
Academy; and his three 
pictures—two portraits 
and a “Wounded He¬ 
ron ”—were surrounded 
by work which was pro¬ 
bably superior to them 
in technical skill. All 
the same, the art of 
England was at a low 
ebb, especially in por¬ 
trait - painting; and 
there can have been 
little or nothing on 
view that a young 
painter might study or 
might imitate with ad¬ 
vantage. The conven¬ 
tional style of por¬ 
traiture which aimed 
at little more than giving a recognisable or a flatter¬ 
ing likeness prevailed for many years. Only recently 
have we been able to leave off wishing that ex¬ 
hibition portraits could be banished to some closed 
chamber only to be opened (like a dead-house) to 
persons in melancholy search for a relation. Nov/ 

(From the Picture by G. F. Watts, P.A.) 




the portraits of the year are one of the most attrac¬ 
tive parts of an exhibition. That this is so is mainly 
due to Mr. Watts. He was the leader of the re¬ 
formation of portrait-art in England; he gave it a 
fresh inspiration and a new point of departure. 

No one could have done this effectually without 
distinct and original aims pursued with persistence 
through many years. It was more difficult perhaps 
to be original in this, the oldest branch of art, than 
in any other. To say nothing of the old masters 
—Raphael and Titian, Holbein and Van Dyck, 
Rembrandt and Hals—a man of ordinary ability can 
be little but a distant follower who succeeds the 
great artists of the English school. But Mr. Watts 
is not a man of ordinary ability, and he struck out 
a path for himself which was not perhaps new, but 
which had been little trodden, and which soon led 
him far beyond the bounds of conventional art. I 
say it was not quite new, because all artists of all 
times have endeavoured to express the minds of their 
sitters. Few, however, if any, have pursued it so 
singly, so persistently, and so successfully as Watts. 
The special aim of his art has been to make the 
face the window of the mind. 

With the ordinary portrait-painter the window is 
closely curtained : the only mental fact expressed of 
the sitter being that he or she is trying to look 
their best and to sit still. To present the sitter as 
unconscious of the presence of the artist was an 
advance indeed in the progress of the art, and in 
the work of some of our greatest painters it is only 
achieved by making him conscious of something 
else. Even Van Dyck and Hals never thought of 
doing much more. They employed their sitters in 
various pursuits, or they devised some transitory 
motive to give meaning and expression to their faces. 
Their portraits are occasional, dramatic, incidental. 
The pomp of circumstance, the dignity of office, the 
distinction of bearing, the magnificence of apparel, the 
casual smile, the employment of a moment, were all 
used to increase the pictorial effect and add to the 
triumph both of artist and subject. Not conscious 
of the presence of the artist, but very conscious indeed 
of the world and of future generations, to whom they 
wish to be represented at their best and bravest, are 
the sitters of the past. Such unconsciousness as theirs 
—in which the mind is indeed at ease, but only par¬ 
tially freed from the constraints of the outer world—has 
not satisfied Mr. Watts, nor has he sought so much to 
dress his sitters as to express them. The only accident 
of which he makes use is that of music: the power of 
which to unlock the soul is finely shown in his por¬ 
traits of Herr Joachim and Lady Lindsay, and once or 
twice elsewhere. No def>ortment however brave, no 
gesture however elegant, no attitude however graceful, 
no employment however picturesque, has diverted him 

from his more serious purpose. The “ happiest” ex¬ 
pression has no charm for him, unless it be also the 
truest; he had yielded nothing to the vanity of his 
subject, or his own. Not how a man or a woman 
may wish to appear before the world, but what she or 
he is in her or himself, has been his business. Not 
with the curtains partially withdrawn, but withdrawn 
altogether, does he seek to portray the face; so that, 
whether from sweetness of disposition or nobleness of 
thought, whatever there may be of inner light may 
shine through. Other artists have drawn men and 
women more bravely in society, but none has painted 
them more completely as at home: at home, not physi¬ 
cally but mentally; and not only at home, but alone. 

It cannot be doubted that this strict adherence 
to his high intention has been attended by no 
small sacrifice of his natural pride in technical skill 
—perhaps the greatest sacrifice that a painter can 
make. He seldom paints more than a half-length; 
he frequently conceals the hands, and this, not 
from any want of power, but the desire to con¬ 
centrate attention on the face, while the face 
itself is painted so as not to call attention to the 
skill of the execution; and, when freshly done, his 
surfaces have a somewhat rough and crude appear¬ 
ance, as of fresco. Like the author of a play, he 
is not on the stage ; he is only called for when the 
play has been enjoyed. How great and consis¬ 
tent a sacrifice Ins practice must involve is shown 
best by almost the only example amongst his por¬ 
traits in which he has put forth all his painter’s 
power to charm the eye with glory of colour and 
rhythmic stateliness of line. In his portraiture 
of the Hon. Mrs. Percy Wyndham he has em¬ 
ployed every resource of his art to express, not 
only character, but physical charm. The scale of 
colour is not brilliant, but it is rich exceedingly; 
the dead red of the vase and the brown and green 
and cream of its magnolias are not in more perfect 
harmony with the rich dress and clear pale complexion 
than their grand rounded forms with the noble 
graces of the beautiful figure. Of itself this superb 
achievement is enough to show that it is not because 
the painter could not have rivalled other masters 
on their peculiar ground t*hat he has chosen to keep 
to his own. His portrait of Mrs. Frederick Myers, 
which we have engraved, is more in his wonted 
manner. It is a characteristic specimen of his capa¬ 
city to render not only outward visible form, but the 
inward beauty of the spirit also. 

It is, however, in his presentments of public cha¬ 
racter that he has attained his greatest distinction 
both as a man and as an artist. It is in these that 
his special faculty has found its fullest scope. There 
is not one that does not testify to his unrivalled 
power of mental diagnosis, not one that does not 



stamp him as a leader amidst the intellectual forces 
as well as amidst the painters of his generation. 
His collective achievement is a most vivid and 
enduring record of the number and variety of 
noble minds which have been at work in Eng¬ 
land during the last quarter of a century. It is 
not only wonderful in itself; it is not only rarely 
and loftily beautiful. It is in the truest sense 
national; it demands not only the admiration of the 
critic but the gratitude of the citizen. I doubt if 
public money could be more properly or patriotically 
spent than in securing replicas of every item in the 
sum for the National Portrait Gallery. 

In the present article I can do little more than 
call attention to the extraordinary faculty, at once 
intellectual and emotional, which has enabled one man 
to set himself in tune with so many and so various 
minds of a high order. In none of these portraits 
of men representing the spiritual and intellectual 
forces of this Victorian age has the artist failed 
to strike the key-note. A past of anxious search 
through metaphysic mazes for the truths most 
desired of mankind is written in the thought-worn 
face of Dr. Martin eau, a future of passionate unrest 
and irrepressible individualism in the eager, subtle, 
self-conscious features of Gladstone in his prime. 
In Arthur Stanley we see the sensitive lip almost 
trembling with its message of good-will towards men; 
in Lord Lawrence, the man of thought as well as of 
action, the devoted and able servant of his country, 
the soldier and statesman in one. Here, the dis¬ 
tinctive nobleness of each preserved, is the quiet 
definite Mill opposed to the thundering indefinite 
Carlyle. These few words may give some notion of 
the breadth of Mr. Watts* sympathy, and of the 
unerring certainty of his insight. To detect his 
finer discriminativeness, some special and peculiar 
class of portrait should be studied. No class 
will serve this purpose better than that of the 
poets; for the mental characteristics of the sitters 
are widely known, their number is small, and all the 
greatest of them are here. Of Tennyson there are 
two portraits; one taken in 1859, the other recently. 
In both there is a touch of mystery which is wanting 
'in the presentments of the sitter’s brethren; in both 
there is a something of the seer and the philosopher 
—a something too of the fastidious workman who is 
long in seeking out the best. The powerful head is 
a laboratory where thoughts volatilise in passion, and 
passion is absorbed in thought. The fire of genius 
that one rather feels than sees, smoulders long some¬ 
times before it bursts into flame; but to look at Mr. 
Watts’ portraits is to be as sensible of its presence 
as of its safe control. The later work in nowise 
contradicts the earlier, it is rather the proof and 
fulfilment of it; passion, imagination, and reflection 

are the chords of both. On the others I have not 
space to enlarge. I shall only note that in each 
particular face the painter has shadowed forth some 
special and peculiar characteristic: in Browning’s, 
speculation ; in Swinburne’s, ardour ; in Taylor’s, 
reason ; in Arnold’s, criticism; in Morris’s, taste. 

It is one of the properties of genius that its 
processes are too subtle and complicated for analysis; 
and how Mr. Watts is able to inspire his faces with 
all this “ psychic ” force must be to some extent a 
mystery. To recur to my former images : he has 
made them truly the windows of the minds, he 
has withdrawn the curtains, he has painted them at 
home, mentally and alone. One thing, however, we 
may take for granted : that he has no charm by 
which he can at will shade off the minds of his 
sitters from all the reflections of daily life. Even 
if he could effect the necessary isolation, it is not 
probable that he could produce the desired expression. 
His process is very different from this; and if we 
cannot analyse it perfectly, we may at least con¬ 
jecture that a wider sympathy, a power to sift what 
is essential from what is incidental, a spiritual in¬ 
sight almost amounting in some cases to divination, 
are among the agencies he sets at work. Most por¬ 
traits deal but with present facts. His are inspired 
with that large truth which is perceived only by the 
imagination; they extend far back into the past, and 
far forward into the future. The Martineau and the 
Mill are histories; the Gladstone and the Burne- 
Jones are not only histories, but prophecies. 

It is evident that a man who can paint such 
portraits as these is not only an artist but a poet. 
It is probably not entirely from inclination that 
Mr. Watts has devoted comparatively little time to 
purely poetic art, of which he has given us specimens 
of noble originality and of so rare a quality that 
there are few great artists of any time to whom he 
has not been compared by writers in England and 
on the Continent. For all that, in his creative, 
as in his portrait art, he remains himself; he is 
as individual as he is versatile in bringing the 
same serious and imaginative intelligence to bear 
upon his work, whether it be the presentment of a 
poet’s face or the embodiment of some one of his 
dreams. That his genius as an artist in imagina¬ 
tion is not duly recognised is sufficiently proved by 
the fact that one of the noblest imaginings ever 
painted—his “Paolo and Francesca”—still remains 
in his own possession. This is no doubt partly 
from the insensibility of the British public to any 
but the most commonplace sentiment in art, partly 
because of their reluctance to believe that one man 
can excel in more than one thing. At the same 
time it must be confessed that of epic work he has 
finished but little, and that he has too frequently 



exhibited designs which, however suggestive of power 
and loftiness of purpose they might be, were likely 
to be neglected in the 
presence of his fully- 
wrought portraits. A 
few he has completed 
worthily which, when 
once seen, live for ever 
in the memory as things 
apart: from the noblest 
as from the most trivial 
expressions of contem¬ 
porary art. It is need¬ 
less to institute com¬ 
parisons between him 
and any of his great 
contemporaries; it will 
be sufficient to say that 
the quality of emotion 
and enjoyment to be 
derived from his pic¬ 
tures is unusually varied 
and noble. As needless 
is it to compare him 
with the dead; it will 
be enough to note that 
to the Venetians he 
seems to owe his mas- 
tery of decorative effect, 
and some of his sense of 
the heroic dignity of the 
human form, while his 
daring in conception 
and rare power of body¬ 
ing abstract ideas in grand and simple forms have 
been strengthened by the study of Michelangelo. 

A student of the dead rather than a rival of the 
living, above all is he indebted to the Greeks. Classic 
legend it is that has supplied him with the subjects 
of perhaps his most perfect pictures. In his “ Daphne ” 
he has not chosen to give us any incident of the 
beautiful old myth—not the flight from the god-like 
lover, not the supplication nor the blossoming. The 
figure of the hapless nymph—naked, and chaste, and 
pale, against an exquisitely drawn and composed back¬ 
ground of laurel—is an allegory ; of sylvan purity, 
it may be; in any case of beauty. His splendid 
“Wife of Pygmalion/’ a veritable “ translation 
from the Greek,” and his most excellent design 
of the “ Three Goddesses,” naked and unashamed, 
wearing that air of divine dignity which was not 
reborn at the Renaissance, might almost be described 
as art before the Fall. There is more of modern senti¬ 
ment in his sweet, shrinking figure of “ Psyche;” 
and it is of the art of Venice rather than that of 
Athens, of which we are reminded in his lovely 

vision of “ Endymion,” which we have engraved, 
lie has proved his sympathy, too, with the fancies 

of more than one of the 
moderns. His “Ophelia,” 
craning over the dark 
stream, mind and body 
burnt out with the 
fierce pale flame that 
still flickers in her wan 
cheeks and wild eyes, 
is very finely conceived; 
but in “ Paolo and Fran¬ 
cesca” we have one 
of those rare pictorial 
visions which seem 
identical with those of 
the poet they illustrate. 
The lachrymose sen¬ 
timentalism of Scheffer 
and the theatrical pos¬ 
turing of Dore are 
equally foreign to the 
stern impassioned quiet 
of the great Italian. 
Here, though, we see 
what Dante saw. Here 
we are overpowered, as 
he was overpowered, 
with the sense of the 
irrevocable, the hope¬ 
lessness sublime, the 
terribleness of love dead 
and fruitless but ever¬ 
lastingly potent. There 
are-the lovers; and there is Eternity. Will-less and 
hopeless in the windy void, there are they wafted 
together for ever. 

The painter’s tendency to express his ideas of 
the mysteries of life in allegorical design—though 
seldom shown till recent years—must have com¬ 
menced early, if I may rightly presume that his 
notable composition of “Life’s Illusions” (exhibited 
in 1849) was not its first result. Considei'ed either 
as a piece of flesh-painting or an achievement in 
design, this glorious vision of illusive beauty rising 
and curling and vanishing like vapour has not many 
rivals in modern art. The rest of the allegory is 
a little obvious—as young men’s allegories are wont 
to be. Mr. Watts’ next ambitious work of the 
kind is the grandly decorative “Allegory of Time 
and Oblivion.” It would seem to be the artist’s 
earliest presentment of his original and lofty idea 
of Time—not as our withered white-haired enemy 
with the forelock, but, in his own words, “ as the 
type of stalwart manhood and imperishable youth.” 
The idea is repeated in his “ Time and Death,” of 


(From the Portrait by G. F. Watts, R.A.) 

(From the Picture by G. F. Watts, R.A.) 



which only a sketch is on view. For Death, too, he 
has invented a new image : as of a great Woman, 
white robed and of ghastly complexion, with hollow 
cheeks and sunken eyes. In the far finer design of 
“ Death and Love,” he has apparently expressed the 
same idea ; but the figure is draped from head to 
foot, and has a wonderful suggestion of a mysterious 
irresistible force, all the more awful because impal¬ 
pable. This picture has been greatly improved since 
it was first exhibited, and its dryness of texture is 
softened by the glass in front of it; but it has not, 
to me, the same beauty as the exquisite small finished 
study of the composition which is in the larger room. 
Yet another aspect of his female Death has Mr. 
Watts portrayed for us in the elaborate composition 
called “ The Angel of Death,” where she is painted 
sovereign and enthroned. The work is grand, monu¬ 
mental, and—as will be seen from the careful expla¬ 
nation which is given in the catalogue—full of poetic 

intentions. I doubt, however, if a picture which 
needs so much of verbal assistance for its right 
interpretation is ever worth painting. Much the 
same objection attaches to the “ To All Churches: 
a Symbolical Design, 1875,” of which we give an 
illustration. It represents the Supreme Being in 
a symbolic form, neither male nor female, gathering 
together his children, the Churches (all forms of 
belief), as a hen gathers her chickens under her 
wing. It is a spectacle designed to show that all 
the disputes of all the creeds are but as the quarrels 
of children in the sight of God, and so to shame 
mankind into tolerance. A sermon, a satire, and a 
poem in one, it is lofty alike in motive and idea. 
At present the colour is crude and unpleasant; but 
it is probable that a few years will produce a 
change in this respect, if one may judge by the 
effect that time has had on a good many of its 
fellows. And here it may not be improper to 


(From the Picture by G. F. Watts, E.A.) 



note that Mr. Watts in his method of painting shows 
the same originality and serious purpose as in his 
design, preferring to lay his tints side by side, like 
mosaic, to painting one over the other. He mingles 
them, of course, at the edges; hut he never puts light 
or bright colour over darker. He never, when he 
can avoid it, mixes white with transparent hues, but 
makes the substance of his colouring of those that 
have the greatest transparency and least body : his 
theory being, that when in course of time the pre¬ 
served brilliancy of the ground tells through, his 
pictures will have the quality of stained glass. He 
is also careful that his colours should in themselves 
be beautiful, and he lays them on thick and dry, 
with very little medium. It may be interesting to 
state that the medium he uses is linseed-oil, if 
necessary diluted with some essential oil. How far 
his theory is justified by the event is illustrated by 
several of the pictures exhibited, which, though he 
has not touched them since they were painted, are 
far fresher in appearance and moi’e luminous in colour 
than most of his later works. It may be doubted 
whether there is not a little too much of the stained- 
glass quality in his “ Lady Holland; ” but I know 
of no modern picture which has such a splendid 
body of pure bright colours as his “ Lady Playing 
the Piano, 1860.” The earlier portrait of Tennyson 
is one of many others which have similarly im¬ 
proved. Should the “ To All Churches ” ever glow 
with the same inner light, it will not indeed better 
the text of the sermon, but the delivery will be 
far more effective. 

Of Mr. Watts’ future work it is hard to pro¬ 
phecy. Of dreams and designs already sketched out 
there are enough to employ him for many years. 
It is earnestly to be hoped that some, especially the 

“Three Goddesses,” will receive more perfect realisa¬ 
tion. Among them are many inspired by Scripture: 
as, for instance, the grand and gloomy Esau, and 
that most tremendous vision of the wrath of heaven 
descending upon Cain. Of this latter only the 
sketch is here; the picture is deposited in the Dip¬ 
loma Gallery of the Royal Academy. The two 
projected series of the “Fall of Man” and the 
“ Life of Eve ” are full of fine promise, and the 
scenes from Revelation are quick with germs of 
greatness. Meanwhile, to whatever work Mr. Watts 
may turn his hand, we may be sure that nothing 
small or ignoble will ever come from under it. 

Certainly neither of these epithets can be applied 
to the last work on my list—the subject of our 
full-page engraving. This noble picture —“ The 
Mid-day Rest,” as it is called—is not of a kind that 
one would have expected from Mr. Watts. But, 
with its frank and semi-heroic realism, it expresses 
an intention quite characteristic and quite worthy 
of the artist—that of the preservation of faithful 
images of grand and unique types both of man 
and horse, which he thinks may ere long be refined 
away. To this end has he painted to the life his 
brawny, beery, herculean drayman, leaning against 
his shafts and sleepily casting grain to the pigeons, 
while his grand docile brutes stand patient and 
still. The painter, as may be seen in many of his 
pictures, has studied animals with great care and to 
admirable purpose ; but there is still reason for sur¬ 
prise at the splendid modelling and grand drawing 
of these magnificent horses. The same sense of 
fitness which characterises all his work is evident in 
the background of broad horse-chestnut leaves and 
red-brick wall, in harmony with the grandiose sim¬ 
plicity of the whole design. Cosmo Monkhouse. 



I T is a familiar necessary implement enough, yet, 
in an artistic sense, it is harshly if not barbarously 
dealt with. Charles Lamb says happily of a new 
cheap edition, issued by Tegg, of his fine old favourite 
“ Burton’s Anatomy,” which he was accustomed to 
read in a “ good tall copy ” of the seventeenth 
century, “ I know nothing more heartless.” And 
so of the Birmingham coal-scuttles issued in the 
glory of japanning, gilding, and general clattering 
magnificence, it may be said that there is nothing so 
pitiable. The sight of one, meant to be handsome 
and ornamental, laid like a mortar beside your fire, 
with its shiny sticky blackness, fluted sides, and 
oval gilt lid, is an ugliness and a sorrow for ever. 

Rather than endure it one would almost go with¬ 
out coals altogether. It is inconvenient and un¬ 
suited for its purpose, as every inartistic thing is 
certain to be. As it gapes at us it may indeed 
boast that it holds the coals; but how hard it is to 
extract them ! The problem, in truth, is of some 
difficulty. The jaws are held apart by a sort of 
prop between, with a view to keep the coals from 
straying over the carpet, as, if the utensil were at 
a level, they would surely do; but the tube-shape 
hinders this, and keeps all the coal at the bottom, 
whence it has to be dug out. The very look of the 
thing is an offence. At best it has but a dirty if 
an honest function; and the black dusty coal has to 



be made tolerable in a drawing-room. The makers 
have felt this, and tried to beautify their work with 
gold and lacquer, and with a lid which moves on a 
very weak hinge, flaps down with a noisy jar, and 
flaps back to be often broken off. Sometimes there 
are wheels below. Often, too, a photograph of some 
antique statue, or a painting of flowers on a white 
ground, is introduced by way of decoration—a painful 
association with the black and coarse blocks within. 
As a change, we sometimes find a combination of 
wood and brass employed with even worse effect, coal 
in a wooden box being altogether out of keeping. 
Novel and strange shapes have been devised and 
“ brought out among others one of a ponderous 
basket, with sloping lids on each side. The mean¬ 
ing of these fantastic freaks it is impossible to divine, 
unless it is that they are perpetrated with a view 
to introducing a “ novelty ” for the drawing-room. 

Now all these results — so many gropings in 
the dark—proceed from false principles, and are 
therefore unsatisfactory. The idea is to furnish a 
small coal store for the drawing-room—that is, a 
magazine in which coal may be kept to save the 
trouble of bringing it from below. Now the prac¬ 
tice of keeping a stock of coals in a drawing-room 
is fatal to furniture and hangings; it is also the 
raison d’etre of this glorified coal-bunker of ours, the 
principal function of which is altogether to refuse 
to yield up its contents, or so to yield them as in¬ 
evitably to scatter them over the carpet. No more 
fuel should ever be kept in the room than just enough 
to renew the expiring fire; and there is nothing 
better for this than the old familiar coal-scuttle or 
coal-box. It contains a small reserve, and when 
exhausted it is carried below and replenished. It is 
analogous to a water-jug in a washhand-stand, which 
is a different thing from a pail or a water-butt. 
With what labour and trouble the magazines in vogue 
are re-filled many of us have seen ; and a melancholy 
sight it is. An overburdened servant struggling 
with both hands to lift the ponderous thing appears 
as a kind of inglorious martyr—to duties that are 
unnecessary, to a taste that is absolutely false. 

What we want is something that shall be light, 
handy, and inconspicuous, for it is not suitable that 
so coarse a matter as coal should thrust itself upon 
public notice. We must select a material, too, which 
shall not be inappropriate and out of key. China, 
pottery, and glass are accepted for holding water; 
combinations of metal and wood we feel to be strange 
and improper in themselves. It should be a homely 
metal—genuine, stout, and serviceable : not spick and 
span like brass, which shows black marks and is cleaned 
with difficulty; not iron, which savours of the kit¬ 
chen ; nothing japanned or painted, for all things 
painted or japanned are odious. What, however, of 

copper—of copper lightly decorated with brass ? It 
has a relation to the fire, it keeps a genuine glow, 
it has a respectable and handsome air. Nothing, 
then, is better than the old open-mouthed coal-box 
that “John brings up.” If is carried lightly, and 
shoots its contents on the fire deftly and con¬ 
veniently ; it honestly shows what it contains; it 
is, in short, a sort of enlarged ladle or spoon, and as 
such is it used. However, as it is a primitive and 
rather wasteful contrivance, we may accept a com¬ 
promise, and let our coal-box become a sort of bowl, 
standing open-mouthed and ready by the fire, whence 
with a light scoop a small supply may dexterously 
be drawn. Here, however, we get into trouble with 
strict sesthetic principles; for we cannot do without 
a stand, and something like the stem and “foot” 
of a glass are added below, so that a most awkward- 
looking composition is the result. It is like putting a 
stand under a spoon, which instantly becomes another 
article with another function. Again, the two handles 
to a coal-box, which should be boldly emphasised, pro¬ 
test loudly against the stand below, which says as 
loudly, “ It does not want you, but me.” To be 
nicely accurate, these handles should modestly pro¬ 
claim themselves as only meant for transporting 
the body attached to them from cellar to drawing¬ 
room ; they should therefore be one at each side, 
while the scoop should be developed into the leading 
feature of the whole. It should, that is to say, 
instead, of being the mean, “ skimpy,” inefficient 
thing it is, become a really handsome, capacious, and 
boldly-treated article. Being large, well balanced, 
and conspicuous, it, rather than what it carries, should 
attract the eye. But, indeed, all this theorising is 
more or less false, as the coal-scuttle proper is 
made for a stately and effective entrance into the 
drawing-room, with a prompt withdrawal ; and for 
the coal-scuttle proper it would be quite conceivable 
that a real artist should produce a really artistic 
design. Something of the kind has been attempted : 
as witness the thin things, brass-embossed and 
having an air of repousse work, we know. But 
these are so slight and mean that their pretention 
is seen through ; they look as if they would bend, and 
the repousse' indentures and hollows are actually an 
added weakness. But then if our scuttle be of solid 
and substantial brass, we have to reckon with the 
element of expense. Better, therefore, plainness and 
simple strength. Copper, as before noted, seems 
the material best in keeping. It is rude, plain, 
effective, though it only lends itself to simple lines; 
it always looks well, with an honest warmth akin to 
the glow of the embers. What is chiefly wanted is 
the artist. Let him only appear, and keep in view 
the principles I have shadowed forth, and he will be 
a benefactor to his kind. Percy Fitzgerald. 



IYING in an imitative age, we 
can make but imperfect essays 
in artistic fur¬ 
nishing. In 

side the gates, or finishing his winter palace in 
town, had no need to cast about for “ periods,” in 
his things of use or ornament, and was not fain to 
consider himself exceptionally consistent if he kept 
within a liberal margin of a century in matching 
together the fittings of his house. Every one 
who worked for him—from the artist who frescoed 
his wall to the carpenter or the potter—worked 
strictly, but uncon¬ 
sciously, according to 
the “unities.” Every¬ 
thing was right, as 
a matter of course; 
everything was art¬ 
istic ; everything, in 
a word, was early 
Floi'entine without 
effort. Some antiques 
among the ornaments 
of the house took 
their places as har¬ 
monious accidents; 
but all the rest was 
in one accord. We, 
however, who “ live 
by admiration,” in a 
sense more extreme 
than that intended 
by Wordsworth, are 
obliged to take very 
special pains in our 

we wish to preserve these unities: with this result 
when all is done—that we are ourselves the stand¬ 
ing anachronisms to our dwellings, thinking, feeling, 
acting, and dressing out of date. The wisest way 
is, therefore, to accept the situation frankly, to 
abandon the dream of simulating or representing 
a period, and to mix times for the sake of their 
beauty, choosing ornaments rather by way of remi¬ 
niscence than of reproduction. Mr. Alma-Tadema’s 
way has evidently been this, and his house in the 
Regent'’s Park, if antique in many of its details, 
is modern in its comprehensiveness. Old times 
and new, the East and the West, have been made 
to contribute some line of form, some subtlety of 
colour to a cluster of rooms which is as brilliant 
and attractive as a bunch of flowers. Nevertheless, 
these several components are all correct in them¬ 
selves. What is Roman is pure Roman—not that 
adaptation after the “Empire” taste which so 
often does duty for the true thing; and what is 
Japanese is pure Japanese, and no half-occidentalised 
corruption. Using classic qualities more than do 
most painters who have built themselves palaces of 
art, the artist’s choice has inclined rather to the 
lucid in colour and the translucent in surface than 
to the soft tertiary tints and the dull and opaque 



house-furnishing, if 



surfaces of the ordinary English artistic taste. His 
house, indeed, is the appropriate dwelling of one 
who is a painter of light. It stands, too, as far 
as may be from the fog-centres, in that region 
of the north-west which is supposed to afford the 
working artist more days of light and more hours 
of sun than he can find elsewhere in London. Every¬ 
thing is comparative, however; and the “ golden 
glooms" of these charming apartments should by 
rights be recessed from the blaze of a southern sky, 
and penetrated by the all-pervading reflected lights 
of a Roman or an Egyptian summer. 

Entering the hall, on each side is a door— 
the left one leading to Mrs. Alma-Tadema’s studio 
and the conservatory, and the right leading to the 
library, with its Gothic furniture. These doors 
open outwards and meet in the hall, where by a 
very simple arrangement they are fixed, and block 
entrance to the house, except through the rooms 
on either side, which are narrow and long, and 
which lead to the other end of the hall, and to the 
staircase, which one must ascend to reach the drawing¬ 
rooms and Mr. Alma-Tadema’s studio. The doors, 
thus devised to block, at will, the entrance passage 
or hall, have painted panels—one of which contains 
a portrait of Mrs. Alma-Tadema by her husband. 

This is one of the decorations of Townshend House 
which dates from before the explosion on the Regent’s 
Canal. The rest of the door was shattered, but that 
particular panel was left uninjured : because, says 
the painter, it had on it the portrait of the mistress 
of the house. If the same charm has always the 
same power, misfortune should never enter the dwell¬ 
ing; for a bust or portrait of Mrs. Alma-Tadema 
may be found in nearly every room. In addition to 
the blue-bonneted head on the panel just alluded 
to, there is a more important portrait—exhibited 
at . the Grosvenor Gallery a few seasons ago—from 
Mr. Alma-Tadema’s own brush; M. Bastien-Lepage 
and Mr. John Collier have interpreted the same 
features in colour; while among the busts and 
statuettes which mark the homage of many sculp¬ 
tors M. Amendola’s plastic portrait of the lady leaning 
back in a low chair may take the palm for vividness 
and finish. Mrs. Alma-Tadema’s name is inscribed 
in antique letters on wall and panel, and the dates 
of important domestic events, such as the painter’s 
arrival in England and his marriage, are traced 
above the drawing-room door, and help to make 
Townshend House what every house ought to be : 
perhaps a place for beautiful things and a museum 
for rare ones, but above everything a home. 





The artist lives his whole life under his own roof, 
and every room hears witness to his presence. Every 
nook and corner is inhabited, and possesses in con¬ 
sequence that human interest which is wanting in 
half the fine houses of the day. The duke in 
“ Lothair ” who complains that he has no home, 
because in truth he has so many, spoke a fuller truth 
than perhaps he knew ; and the merchant, who spends 
half or a quarter of his life in the city, runs the risk 
of never having anything more than an “ eligible 
mansion ” for the place of his abode. But Towns- 
hend House is the entire scene of Mr. Alma-Tadema’s 
toil, happiness, and triumph, and is, therefore, in 
some sense an epitome of his history; for if the books 
on a man’s shelves be an indication of his character, 
far more so in the world of art are the papers on his 
walls, the cloths on his table, and the carpets on his 
floor. This biographical interest belongs to almost 
every room of Townshend House hardly less than 
to the studio, which may be supposed to represent 
the artist’s own taste. The Tadema studio is a 
square room, the view of which in our illustration 
of it is taken from behind the chair, enveloped in a 
rug, seen in the right-hand corner nearest the spec¬ 
tator. In the left-hand corner, at the farther end of 
the room, is the entrance, with a statue of the painter 

to the right. The decorations of the room, in which 
Pompeian designs are mostly executed in the cus¬ 
tomary reds and yellows, can hardly be presented to 
the reader by the black and white of the artist, and 
still less by the black and white of the writer. The 
initiated will doubtless find in all these decorations, 
most of which are from the hand of Mr. Alma- 
Tadema himself, a learning which will rouse their 
enthusiasm; but the visitor not versed in archaic 
lore will be inclined to consider the design curious 
rather than delightful, and will turn from the some¬ 
what expressionless tints on ceiling and walls to the 
canvases in course of progress on the easels. For here 
the busy artist labours with a fidelity which shirks no 
difficulty, and never hesitates to obliterate one beau¬ 
tiful chord of colour if it can be replaced 1 >y another 
more beautiful still. And while he will sacrifice time 
to produce a scheme of colour which perhaps hardly 
a dozen Academy goers will recognise as nearer per¬ 
fection than that which has been effaced, he sacri¬ 
fices also some of that easily-won applause which 
can be gained by the use of cheap methods of effect. 
He paints marble without reflections and armour 
without high lights, yet both with a science which 
captivates the connoisseur, and with a reality which 
awakens the admiration and curiosity of the crowd. 

From this studio, season by 
season, he has gladdened us 
by his whites and his blues, 
and charmed us by the cool 
and lovely tints he has 
created out of the little 
gamut of colours contained 
upon the artist’s palette. 

Descending three steps, 
we pass into the first of 
the suite of little drawing¬ 
rooms. The Column Draw¬ 
ing-Room’s ceiling is sup¬ 
ported by Ionic pillars, lu¬ 
cent in surface, while great 
cushions of Oriental stuffs 
are heaped upon the chairs 
and couches, and thick 
Oriental carpets, small in 
size and subtle in colour, 
almost cover the inlaid floor. 
A portion of this room, or 
rather compartment — for 
there are no doors between 
the drawing-rooms,but only 
archways and curtains—is 
hung with crimson Persian 
applique work in velvet of 
considerable antiquity, once 
the ornament of a palace in 




mbs. axma-tadema’s studio. 

Venice when she “held the gorgeous East in fee;” 
a decoration in stencil comes between the velvet and 
the yellow ceiling; and the windows are principally 
filled by Mexican onyx. 

Farther on is the Gold Room, more antique in 
sentiment and more radiant than any other apartment 
in the house. One side is opened by an arch designed 
by the master of the dwelling, and surmounted by two 
small semicircular openings overarching a couple of 
broad shelves in the thickness of the wall, which are 
loaded with pottery; immediately below these shelves 
hangs a gorgeous Chinese silk curtain, yellow, blue, and 
gold. The floor is of ebony and maple; a Byzantine 
dado five feet high lines the walls, and supports china 
or some chance ornament upon its shelf; above this 
runs a miniature copy, in ivory set in ebony, of the 
Parthenon frieze; while thence to the ceiling and 
over the ceiling itself spreads the luminous gold in 
shade which gives the room its beauty and its name. 
The furniture, of which there is not too much, tells 

darkly against this splendid surface, 
so smooth yet so varied by the acci¬ 
dents of light, the accents of con¬ 
trast being here strongly marked 
throughout. The gold walls were 
originally intended to serve more 
distinctly as a background, or rather 
to fill up the interstices of pictures, 
and so frame them more effectually, 
but the gold-leaf once applied was 
found to be so beautiful that it was 
left alone. The window here, too 
is fitted with panes, not of glass 
but of Mexican onyx, translucent 
and almost transparent, with vein- 
ings of brown; and the leads trace 
the often-repeated initials of the 
master and mistress of the house. 
Apart upon a shelf stands a large 
crater or oxybaphon—a reproduc¬ 
tion of the great Hildesheim piece 
which, cut and finished from the 
solid silver, and weighing about 
thirty Roman pounds, was unearthed 
about fourteen years ago. In this 
room, so well adapted for sound, 
stands the celebrated piano. Pre¬ 
cious woods are combined with 
ivory, brass, and alabaster, in the 
rich Byzantine design; and within 
the movable part of the cover is 
spread a sheet of vellum upon 
which all those virtuosi who have 
evoked the exquisite tone of the 
piano have inscribed their names. 
The workmanship and the finish 
of the piano, which is a Broadwood, are as rare as 
the materials. 

Divided from the Gold Room by the double-headed 
archway is an apartment all Dutch and mediaeval, the 
last of the little group of diminutive drawing-rooms. 
When Townshend House was shaken and all but 
destroyed by the explosion, a magnificent collection 
of old Dutch cabinets went to pieces, and it is with 
the panels remaining that this room is lined for some 
five or six feet of its height. A sixteenth-century 
window, transported hither, gives dim light through 
its latticed glass, and is fortified by old oak shutters 
heavily clamped with steel. Above the wooden panel¬ 
ling the room is painted in a very light tint which 
spreads over the deeply-vaulted ceiling-, and is broken 
on the walls by a quantity of blue and white china, 
one or two old Dutch pictures, and innumerable 
accidents of ornament. The room, being somewhat 
dark, bears this lightness of tone in its upper portion 
very well. Mr. Alma-Tadema was, as everybody 



knows, the pupil of that determined medievalist 
Baron Leys, the completeness and precision of whose 
imparted manner have survived the abrupt changes 
in taste and subject through which the younger 
painter has passed 
since his days of 
pupilage. The panel 
room at Townshend 
House recalls the 
fact that it has not 
always been Egypt, 

Greece, and Rome 
with our Anglo- 
Duteh artist. Nor 
does the staircase, 
to which we pass 
from the last draw¬ 
ing-room, bear any 
trace of classicism 
in its fittings. A 
Morris paper—the 
pomegranate pat¬ 
tern — lines the 
walls, with a dado 
of dark brown; but 
little is visible ex¬ 
cept an almost com¬ 
plete collection of 
photographs from 
Air. Alma-Tadema’s 
pictures. The 
ground floor of the 
house is distributed 
between the dining¬ 
room, the library, 
and Airs. Alma- 
Tadema’s studio, 
which is divided 

into compartments, after the fashion of the draw¬ 
ing-room. In one division the Japanese element 
is strong; clusters of fans subdue the lamps, and 
in their half-shadow hangs the painter’s solemn 
and impressive “ Death of the First-born.” A 
cottage piano stands here; it has been superseded 


and surpassed by the famous instrument upstairs, 
but its ease has decorations in colour from the 
hands of Mr. Alma-Tadema and his wife—quaint 
designs which include some staves of antique nota¬ 
tion. From this 
room opens another 
which is in a dif¬ 
ferent taste. The 
upper portion of the 
walls are hung with 
Spanish leather, 
and the quasi-white 
dado is panelled 
with decorative de¬ 
signs. Then comes 
the conservatory, 
with tall plants in 
picturesque pots; 
a rectangular white 
marble Roman tank 
receives a fountain 
from the mouth of 
a small antique 
mask; M. Dalou’s 
bust of Mrs. Alma- 
Tadema stands 
above. An Indian 
across the 
conservatory, and 
old Chinese lam- 
terns hang from 
above. Passing the 
barometer, which 
the artist complains 
of as not show- 
flue weather 




we go 

through the dining-room, with its matting dado and 
old water-colours of flower and fruit, and through 
the library where the Gothic table was designed by 
Mr. Alma-Tadema himself. The grotesque head of a 
bronze knocker, copied from an antique, is our last 
impression of Townshend House. W. AIeynell. 


I N no calling more than the artist’s has the father’s 
mantle so often fallen on the son, and in none of 
the schools of the Renaissance more frequently than 
in the German is the son found treading in the father’s 
footsteps, and receiving inspiration and instruction 
directly from his sire. The Holbeins, father and son, 

are brilliant instances; Lucas Cranach, Wolgemut, 
Burgkmair, and many others less known, were the 
pupils of painter-fathers; and even Albert Diirer 
laboured with Ins father in the goldsmith’s workshop 
ere he took to studying painting under Wolgemut. 

Treading in the footsteps of illustrious prede- 



cessors, Joseph Fliiggen received his first lessons in 
art in his father’s studio. Gisbert Fliiggen, a native 
of Cologne, following the irresistible attraction 
toward the German art-metropolis, took up his 
abode in Munich in 1836. He was, and is, esteemed 
as a genre- painter, both at home and abroad, and 
some of his best work is to be fouqd in private col¬ 
lections in England and Russia. On the 3rd of April, 
1842, his son Joseph was born. A striking por¬ 
traiture of their maidservant, produced by Joseph at 
ten years old, induced Gisbert Fliiggen to take the 
boy in hand, and make a painter of him. No sooner 
had he left school, than he became his father’s pupil 
and a student in his father’s atelier. There his chief 
work was drawing Studienkopfe, or studies of heads, 
from which it would appear that Gisbert Fliiggen 
preferred study from the life to drawing from the 
antique. The rapid progress which he made under 
his father’s teaching, and his early development of 
independent tendencies in art, induced old Gisbert 
to place him in the Academy in Munich, where he 
worked under the well-known artists Sehlotauer and 
Auschutz, and, later on, under Piloty. Wilhelm von 
Kaulbach also encouraged him with sympathy and 
advice, and proved himself in after-years the most 

ready and helpful of counsellors. Very healthy and 
stimulating, too, was the influence of such men as 
Genelli and Moritz von Schwind, into whose society 
young Fliiggen had the good luck to be thrown. 
With the son of the latter he formed a lasting and 
intimate friendship based upon a common enthusiasm 
for art and poetry. 

Fliiggen inherits from his father a taste for anti¬ 
quarian objects, and has, by diligent study of the art- 
treasures which are contained in Munich, attained to 
eminent distinction for his knowledge and understand¬ 
ing of art-ornament and his skill in its application. 
Few, perhaps, are better versed than he in the architec¬ 
ture, ornament, and costume of the past, particularly 
in those of the Middle Ages. Among those best 
qualified to judge—and especially among his fellow- 
artists—he enjoys great renown as an aesthetic archaeo¬ 
logist. In the famous Munich Kunstlerfeste he is 
one of the most earnest and energetic helpers. One 
of the triumphs of the Hoftheatrefeste of 1877 was 
a waggon of the time of Holbein, for the Weaver’s 
Guild, designed and built by him. As with art- 
ornament, so with costume. He has a systematic 
knowledge of the various epochs of history; and, 
his artist’s taste and enthusiasm aiding, he has got 


(From the Fainting by J. Fliiggen.) 



together a complete, appropriate, and characteristic 
collection of costumes, most of which he, with 
his own hand, has designed, cut out, and arranged 
from ancient pictures and drawings. llis enthu¬ 
siasm in this direction is really boundless. Upon the 
day of the Kiinstlerfeste he will be seen pale and 
broken and exhausted with long tailoring, and with 
the passionate vigils he has wasted on the compo- 

independence and maturity. Fliiggen, like so many 
of his comrades who have since made a name in the 
world, appears to owe much to the teaching of Piloty. 
A glance, however, at the peculiar characteristics and 
specilic relations of the Piloty school is enough to 
show that at least as much lustre has been shed by 
the scholars on the master as by the master on the 
scholars. In tins connection a word or two with 

sition and invention of costumes for the occasion— 
costumes whose picturesque quaintness and historical 
accuracy have enhanced not a little the beauty and 
the fame of these artistic gatherings. 

As in a picture the background and accessories 
give interest and solidity to the central figure, so 
in following the career of an artist we must take 
into consideration not only his nominal teachers and 
professors, but the general atmosphere about him 
and the influence under which his talent ripens into 

reference to the school itself will not be inappropriate. 
Piloty’s capacity for teaching, exercised on the old 
and reputable basis of the academical constitution, 
soon attracted a goodly number of able young men 
who, gathering round him as their master, gave him 
a claim on the national gratitude, and helped to 
win him his uncommon fame. The way in which 
the group was formed shows that Piloty allowed 
the spread of his academy to be more governed 
by outward circumstances than he himself perhaps 



believed. It was not that he lacked a standard of 
judgment, nor that this did not agree with his inward 
convictions. In his eyes, which in painting were 
keenly alive to outward appearances, outward appear¬ 
ances, together with outward circumstances — as 
name, nationality, affluence — counted for a great 
deal. It was the one object of his ambition that 
his school should be powerfully and brilliantly re¬ 
presented abroad; and thus it came to pass that he 
could not easily enter into the situation of poor 
students, and held indigence to be a defect, even 
a fault, that might easily stain the character of the 
school, or even bring it into dishonour. It must 
be added that, however unrelenting in this direction 
he was, in the other he was in nowise grudging 
of assistance and furtherance. Those who were in 
need owed much to him, and could at all times 
reckon on his helping hand at the distribution of the 
Academy funds. In return his scholars maintained 
the outward honour of the school as best they might, 
and did all they possibly could to give their master 
pleasure. Thus it was a happy moment for him if he 
happened to meet a party of his scholars riding in 
the public streets, and received their chivalrous greet¬ 
ing. Now and then, no doubt, he probably felt a 
little unhappy, for the squadron did not always do 
him credit, either in appearance or accomplishment. 
Oddly enough, his best pupils, such as Makart and 
Gabriel Max, were the worst cavaliers. Max, who 
could only ride at a walk, was more at home in 
his studio, and he had the obstinate peculiarity of 
shutting himself up in it on the master’s Cor- 
recturtag. As for Makart, he must have learned 
to ride since his student days, for he has been 
heard of as a stately horseman at the festivities 
(1878) in Vienna, in celebration of the Imperial 
silver wedding. As a painter, his capacity appears 
to have been not so questionable. In Fliiggen’s 
journal we read how Makart—“a modest, amiable 
fellow”—turned up one day in his (Fliiggen’s) paint¬ 
ing-room, “ armed only with a small sketch-book, in 
which were chiefly pencil-drawings from the time of 
the Thirty Years’ War, designed with a particularly 
happy eye for effects of light and shade.” A short 
time after he became a pupil of Piloty’s, and we 
may read in his own note-book of the way in which 
the master exercised his function. “ Piloty’s instruc¬ 
tion was chiefly verbal,” he says; “ he but seldom 
took brush in hand.” All the same, Piloty worked 
and planned with incontestable activity for the right 
development of his school. Sensitive and vigorous 
in no mean degree, he would never permit his pupils 
to waste their energies on trifles or on trivial fancies. 
His method was “to incite to an interesting theme, 
and not to desist until that which had been under¬ 
taken was finished.” He came in, as was but natural, 

for a great deal of homage. Makart, however, was 
the artistic leaven in the school, and his influence 
was strengthened by his personal qualities. Thus we 
read that he “ interested himself warmly in every— 
even the smallest—work of his fellow-aspirants, and 
would cheerfully lend a band wherever he could; ” 
and that “ where Piloty pointed strictly to nature, 
Makart with his youthful and exuberant idealism 
exercised a most wholesome influence.” 

Gisbert Fliiggen died when his son was but 
sixteen years old, and for some time the young man 
had his full share of difficulty and hardship. With¬ 
out means, and dependent on his own efforts, he 
was the reverse of Piloty’s ideal pupil. “ What are 
you doing, Fliiggen ? why are you not at work on 
your big picture ? ” said the master to the embarrassed 
scholar, when he found him producing lay-figures for 
a modeller. It was by the help of such journey-work 
that Fliiggen had to struggle on to the realisation of 
his artistic plans and aspirations. But he was young, 
strong, self-confident, and not afraid of the future; 
he was poor, but he could earn a kind of living; he 
was at work under Piloty, and he had time and oppor¬ 
tunity for study; so that he was luckier than many 
others have been, and had no reason to complain of 
his destiny. Munkaesy, for instance, was not nearly 
so fortunate. He asked help of Piloty, but Piloty 
would none of him, and he had to go and learn to be 
the famous craftsmen he is elsewhere. It must be 
added that Fliiggen did his best to do honour to 
his chance, and took his place in the school beside 
Liezenmayer, Defregger, Max, and Makart taking 
precedence. With Makart’s call to Vienna the fellow¬ 
ship became to some extent dissolved; but the 
example remained, and Munich remained an educa¬ 
tional centre for many a long day yet. 

Fliiggen is next found journeying in company of 
his friend, the artist Adolf Oppel, through France, 
England, Italy, and the Netherlands. The young 
men made excellent use of their time and its oppor¬ 
tunities. Nothing that could contribute to their 
information and instruction, or further their acquaint¬ 
ance with the universal art-language, was left un¬ 
visited. England, in which the Past and the Present 
join hands in so striking a manner, was the country 
that pleased them best. They prefer London to Paris 
even now; it is not known if they go so far as to 
cherish Mulready and Maclise before Millet and 
Delacroix. Italy they saw as artists always see her. 
One of Fliiggen’s impressions of her beauty survives 
in a charming picture of his, the “ Calma di Mare,” 
on the Gulf of Genoa. The tour completed, and 
all the treasure arranged and stored, Fliiggen settled 
down to work in his own studio in Munich. He left 
no variety of sentiment or subject untried. One of 
his earliest pictures, touched with the influence of 




(From the Painting by J. Plug gen.) 

Piloty, but with individual promise in it too., is 
“The Widow;" it represents an episode in the 
life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary. This episode 
has been treated by Fluggen in several pictures, 
and it is to be hoped that he will yet fill in the 
gaps between them. These are “The Widow" 
aforesaid, in the possession of Herr Blumberg-Kieder 
in Strasburg; “ The Miracle of the Rosary of Eliza¬ 
beth," an altar-picture in the castle chapel of Hohen- 
stein, near Stuttgart; and “ St. Elizabeth with her 
Children Passing the Night in a Shed," in the 
hands of an unknown purchaser. In striking con¬ 
trast with these is the boldly-designed and dashingly- 
painted fresco in the National Museum at Munich, 
“ Butcher Kraus Defends his Native Town, Kel- 
heim, against the Austrians.'’'’ A “ Milton Dictating 
to his Daughter" was bought, unfinished, off the 
easel. Almost contemporary with the “ Milton " is 
a “ Frederick with the Bitten Cheek," which takes 
one back to the Wartburg and St. Elizabeth. 

A famous popular tradition was next laid hold of 
by Fluggen; and it was thus that Uhland’s creation, 
“The Widow’s Daughter," took on a visible form. 
The beautiful corpse, the broken-hearted mother, the 
sorrow of the youths, and the passionate anguish of 

the one who says, “ Ich werde Dich lieben in Ewig- 
keit," are depicted with a great deal of feeling and 
a great deal of accomplishment. The German art- 
world and the German press were alike unanimous 
in praising the picture; and it soon found a pur¬ 
chaser in Baron von Leitenberger, of Vienna ; it is 
the subject of one of our illustrations. Equally 
lyrical in spirit are “ Family Joys," “ Happiness in 
the Palace," “Homewards," and the “Love Scene." 
They vary in costume and accessories, and in scene 
and time; but in sentiment and intention they 
are alike. The first was bought by Mr. Wallys, of 
London ; “ Happiness in the Palace " found its way 
into many a home through the medium of a steel 
engraving by Jacoby, of Berlin; and the possessor 
of “ The Widow’s Daughter," Baron Leitenberger, 
added the two last to his collection. An historical pic¬ 
ture, well grouped and arranged, brilliantly coloured, 
and genial in sentiment, is “ Regina Imhof, Bride 
of George Fugger, Receiving the Wedding Pre¬ 
sents ; ’’ it was exhibited in the great Art Industry 
Exhibition in Munich of 1874, and was purchased 
by the Exhibition Committee for the first prize in 
their lottery. It is now in the possession of Herr 
von Barlow in Munich. Fluggen, too, has dealt 










I = |jgw 

— ~l Ip 1 * 1 


SPANISH COURTYARD. (Fmn the Picture by a, Fostina,) 



not a whit less ably with the themes he has selected 
from the works of a modern Germau writer, Scheffel; 
as witness the “ Audifax and Hadamuth ” and the 
“ Frau Hadwig and the Friar.” Mention may also 
be made of “ The Goldsmith’s Daughter,” from 
another ballad of Uhland’s, the Madonna-like “ Mut- 
tergliick,” a mother with her child, full of tender 
feeling and delicate drawing and colour. A picture 
which stands in the foremost rank among the his¬ 
torical work of the modern German school—for 
the simplicity of the conception, the severe correct¬ 
ness of the costumes and the architecture, and the 
happy combination of boldness with finish—is the 
“ Baptism of the Emperor Charles I.” Mediaeval 
romance, which has found a most popular exponent in 
Richard Wagner, has exercised, as we know, a charm 
on Fliiggen from the first. It is not, therefore, 
surprising that he should have selected Wagner’s 
work for illustration, and have done his best to co¬ 
operate with the ambitious and successful musician in 
the work of achieving an artistic expression—new, 
original, and very modern—of that legendary Teu- 
tonism which, at Munich and in aesthetic London, is 
so much the fashion. He has painted four scenes 
from the “ Meistersinger,” four from the “ Tann- 
h a user,” one from the “ Fliegender Hollander,” and 

one from the “ Walkiiren.” Quite in another direc¬ 
tion is a fresh and spirited picture, the subject of our 
first illustration—of a modern sportsman displaying 
to his admiring mother his first booty from the 
field. Fliiggen, who is a passionate sportsman, pro¬ 
bably painted this work as lovingly as he achieved 
the artistic arrangement of the procession of the 
national German Bunilesehiessen in Munich, which 
resulted in an effect worthy of Makart. It is 
pleasant to note that, notwithstanding all this hard 
and ambitious work, he has found time to win name 
and fame as a portrait-painter. Among his most 
successful presentments are those of Frau Wagmiiller 
and the Wirtemberg Minister Von Yarmbiiler, and the 
full-lengths of the reigning King of Bavaria and his 
mad grandsire, Ludwig I., equally renowned for general 
eccentricity and a peculiar interest in Lola Montes. 

The artist who can be thus true to nature, and 
without sacrificing truth distinguish and develop its 
ideal quality, is a good and kindly teacher, and has 
done excellent work among the artists of the rising 
generation. He takes a genuine interest in his many 
pupils, native and foreign, male and female; he abounds 
in sympathy for their trials and difficulties; he devotes 
his leisure to their instruction and advancement. He 
is a clever painter and a worthy and generous man. 


F YSIOGNOMISTS tell us that the human face 
is the index to the mind; so, assuredly, is a 
courtyard the index to the house. From the squalid 
backyard of poor London tenements, populous with 
squalling children and beflapped with grimy linen, 
to the stately quadrangles of college and mansion, 
the courtyard shows at a glance not only the social 
status of the establishment and the individual taste 
of its owner, but the characteristics of its owner’s 
country. The Dutch courtyard, spick and span, with 
its red tiles and close cropped trees, is an ideal of 
neatness, comfort, and domesticity, as De Hoogh and 
his fellows have taught us. In striking contrast 
are the historical courts of Italy. In Venice, for 
instance—“Venise la rouge”—there is something 
sorrowfully suggestive about them. They are often 
of great architectural interest; they are always more 
or less picturesque; but they are mournful and 
solitary. The bustling present disturbs their still¬ 
ness but seldom; and the rattling of bucket and 
chain at the well is well-nigh the only sound that 
breaks their monotonous repose. 

Postma’s “Spanish Courtyard” is neither quaint 
nor dignified. It is the kind of place you read of in 

Fernan Caballero: a place for washing vegetables 
and scouring pots by day, and at eventide for gossip 
and flirtation and the singing of cojilas. Pepita is 
drawing water; Tia Petronilla, the ancient lady, is 
coaxing her pigeons; Juanito, the stout young 
visitor, has laid by his hat and cloak and his twang- 
ling old guitar. On the wall is a picture of bull¬ 
fighting; and in the background is a Moorish door¬ 
way, with an arch that reminds you of Alhambra, 
and Boabdil the King, and the Cid Campeador, and 
Calainos, for his lady’s dear sake, riding to Paris 
for the head of Oliver the paladin :— 

“Ya cabalga Calainos, 

En las sombras de una oliva,” 

and all the rest of it. It is very Spanish indeed. 
It is perhaps more Spanish than Spain. 

Postma, who is a Dutch landscape-painter, has, 
in choosing this subject, departed somewhat from his 
wonted habit. But Spain is a land of enchantments 
as well as of proverbs, beggars, garlic, and guitars; 
and the painters who can, or will, say nay to her 
charms—of light and colour, of beauty and strange¬ 
ness—are few. 

semi-octagons. The irregular forms of the rooms re¬ 
quired dexterous treatment to enable the geometrical 
designs of the ceilings to be applied successfully. 
A careful observer passes from admiration of the 
decoration to wonder at the architectural ingenuity 
required to make it possible. The constructive skill 
of the English architect is even more remarkable 
than the fine manipulation of the Italian decorators. 

This treatment is most apparent in the saloon 
which opens on the right of the antechamber. It 
is forty-two feet long by twenty-two wide, but its 
width is extended in the centre to thirty-six feet 
by a semi-octagonal bay which is constructed in 
one of the towers. Doors, shutters, and ceiling are 
all elaborately carved. The white marble chimney- 
piece is supported by massive statues of slaves, the 
work of Signor Nucci, of Rome. A Renaissance 
frieze of Cupids by the Roman painter Mantovani 
runs round the walls. 

The saloon leads to the drawing-room, where the 
splendour of the decorations reaches its height. In 

HAT is most interesting in Duke 
Algernon’s scheme for combining 
a mediaeval castle with an Italian 
palazzo is the ingenuity shown in 
adapting the irregular shapes of 
the rooms to the emergencies of 
the classical style of decoration. The 
rooms have necessarily to follow the 
shapes of the clusters of circular towers 
which form the main building of the keep, and the 
forms which they would naturally assume seem ill 
suited to the decorative treatment which lends grace 
and dignity to the large oblong halls of the Vatican. 
Moreover, the narrow lancet windows which charac¬ 
terise an Edwardian castle are at variance with the 
sentiment of classical decoration. This structural 
difficulty was one of the chief puzzles which had 
to be solved in carrying out the new design. But 
Mr. Salvin, of whose skill the architectural arrange¬ 
ment of Alnwick Castle is the chief memorial, 
showed his ingenuity in facing the problem. In¬ 
ternally the windows were transformed. The lancets 
were clustered, and received round heads within 
their Gothic framework. They were set in deep 
bays, and the semicircular towers were broken into 




the ceiling 1 gilded carvings stand out from a back¬ 
ground of green and orange. The frieze, on a blue 
ground, represents boys holding festoons; it is adapted 
from a frieze of Giulio Romano in the castle of St. 
Angelo. The chimney-piece, of white Carrara marble, 
is supported by two canephorse. No less splendid, 
though more subdued, is the dining-room, in which 
the carvings of the ceiling, pine-wood on cedar 
panels, are left in the natural colour of the wood, 
and so show more clearly the sharpness and delicacy 
of their execution. The dado round the room is in 
walnut, with minutely-carved panels. The chimney- 
piece is supported on one side by a statue of a Faun, 
on the other by one of a Bacchante. The round 
tower comes in at one end of the dining-room and 
forms a useful recess. 

It were useless to give a catalogue of the pictures 
which these rooms contain. Two only are of ex¬ 
ceptional value to lovers of art. One is a salu¬ 
tation of the Virgin by Sebastiano del Piombo, a 
line specimen of the artist’s vigorous treatment. 
The story which \asari tells of this picture is cha¬ 
racteristic of the artist. After Raphael’s death, 
Sebastiano no longer felt the spur of emulation, and 
gave way to the same feeling of dissatisfaction which 
marred the accomplishment of so many of the works 
of Michelangelo. Sebastiano was slow and labo¬ 
rious in execution, and bis interest soon flagged. 
This picture, which was to be placed above the high 
altar of the Church of S. Maria della Pace, in Rome, 
was never finished. The scaffolding stood and im¬ 
peded the service of the church; but Sebastiano’s 
work never progressed. At last the monks grew 
impatient, and removed the scaffolding, leaving the 
picture covered with a cloth, which was not removed 
till after Sebastiano’s death. Then the two heads of 
Mary and Elizabeth were found to be finished, and 
full of grace and force. But. the picture, as it stands 
in Alnwick Castle, has been much tampered with, 
and it is difficult to discover the design of the whole. 
It was removed from the church by the French, was 
divided into three parts, and was carried off to Paris. 
It passed into the hands of Cardinal Fesch, then of 
Mr. Davenport Bromley, from whom it was bought 
by the Duke of Northumberland. Two of the three 
parts are at Alnwick Castle, the central group of 
Mary and Elizabeth, and another portion with a 
figure of Joseph, which formed part of the back¬ 
ground. Still, the picture is worthy of comparison 
with the “ Raising of Lazarus,” in the National 
Gallery, as an example of the large conception of the 

The other great painting which Alnwick Castle 
contains was also left unfinished by its painter, but 
received completion from the living hand of a still 
more famous pupil. It is the work of Giovanni 
Bellini and Titian; what the failing strength of 
Bellini, at the age of eighty-eight, could not perfect, 
Titian finished. It was painted in 1514 for Duke 
Alfonso, of Ferrara, who wanted it for the decoration 
of a room in which Dosso Dossi had already painted 
mythological stories. Bellini put all his strength 
into the work, which Vasari praises as his best, 
though he finds fault with the stiffness of the 
draperies. It is a Bacchanalian group, conceived 
with all the restraint of Venetian art. Its subject 
is said to be “The Gods Enjoying the Fruits of the 
Earth.” Bellini painted a large group of deities, 
some standing, some reclining, by the side of a 
stream, near which stands a wine-vat. Passavaut 
truly calls them “ a serene band of mortal revellei’S— 
types of festive humanity.” All denotes enjoyment. 



but enjoyment which owes its strength and its per¬ 
manence to supreme restraint. The gods enjoy 
with entire enjoyment, because they bring to their 
enjoyment a god-like wisdom. Passavant happily 
suggests that Bellini 


meant, in this picture, 
to convey the ironical 
converse of Giorgione’s 
idyllic conception of life. 

Gravely he sets forward 
the actual facts of human 
nature. His figures are 
real men, their enjoy¬ 
ment is real enjoyment; 
what is highest is what 
is most human. 

The figures in this 
picture were painted by 
Bellini, who put his 
initials, G. B., witn the 
date, 1514, inside the 
wine-vat; but the back¬ 
ground was left un¬ 
finished. It was filled 
in by Titian, with all the 
splendour of his youth¬ 
ful brush. A hill, such 
as he knew about Cadore, 
rises behind the meadow, 
where sit the revellers; 
its summit holds a castle, 
and its sides are clad with 
trees. It was his work 
at this picture which 
suggested to Titian the 
“ Bacchus and Ariadne,” 
which is one of the glories 
of the National Gallery. 

Few pictures are more 
eminently characteristic 
of the great qualities of 
the Venetian school than 
is this “Feast of the Gods,” 
at Alnwick Castle. It is 
one of the most precious 
possessions of Italian art 
which exist in England. 

Yet it is little known, 
as it seems to have been 
always in private hands : 
it was bought by the 
Duke of Northumberland from the Carnuecini family 
at Rome. These pictures, and many others of lesser 
importance, justify the Italian decoration of the 
splendid reception rooms of Alnwick Castle, and to 
these rooms the Italian restoration is chiefly confined. 

In other parts of Alnwick Castle the mediaeval 
character is still retained. The chapel has lancet 
windows and a groined roof of stone, but its decora¬ 
tion is by mosaic-work in which the patterns of the 

opus Alexandrinum of 
the Roman basilicas have 
been followed. The 
ground floor is appro¬ 
priated to the house¬ 
hold ; a reading gallery, 
which is entered from 
the same floor as the 
reception rooms, is occu¬ 
pied by the family and 
their guests. 

The massive kitchen 
is a reproduction of the 
baronial kitchen of me¬ 
diaeval times, with a 
groined roof of stone 
and ashlar walls. As 
the castle, by its adap¬ 
tation to modern home 
life, lost its baronial 
dining-hall, a necessary 
requisite for the feudal 
position still retained by 
a Duke of Northumber¬ 
land, its place was sup¬ 
plied by a large building 
with open timbered roof 
and long lancet windows. 
This “ guest hall,” as it 
is called, is attached to 
the castle, but has an 
entrance from the stable- 
yard, and when not needed 
for stately hospitality 
serves the purposes of a 

Many as are the 
beauties of Alnwick 
Castle, its mediaeval cha¬ 
racter robs it of one 
charm. The courtyards 
of a feudal fortress have 
no place for flowers, and 
the descent of the hill 
down to the river leaves 
no scope for a garden 
outside. The gardens ai’e 
at some little distance, and stand apart from the 
house; but the view of the richly-wooded park com¬ 
pensates for this loss. It extends for several miles 
around the castle, embraces every variety of river 
and woodland scenery, and mounts upwards to the 

earl Hugh's tower. 



moorland whose purple heather lends a rich back¬ 
ground to the trees below. 

Close by the castle, forming a striking object 
as seen from the park, stands the parish Church of 
St. Michael, a pure Perpendicular building mostly of 
the date of 1464. Like most Northumbrian churches, 
it wears outside a massive and embattled aspect. 
At the south corner of the west end rises a pon¬ 
derous squat tower suggestive of defence. All the 
Northumbrian church-towers look as if they had 
followed the model of the “peels,” as they are 
called, which are scattered over the Borders. These 
“ peels ” are strong square towers used to harbour 
cattle when there was need for flight before a sudden 
raid of freebooting Scots. They are a conspicuous 
feature of Border antiquities, and are met at every 
turn. Sometimes standing in gaunt ruins on a 
hill-top, sometimes incorporated in a dwelling-house, 
sometimes preserved as ornamental appendages to a 
garden, sometimes converted into church-towers, they 
tell their tale of a turbulent past, and recall the 
troublous times which made them the chief buildings 
of the district. The architecture of the Borders is 
all of a military character. The feudal castle, the 
fortified manor-house, and the peel-tower mark the 
various grades of social life. The villagers who did 
not gather round the baron or the knight had to 
provide for their own defence, and these sturdy 
towers are the memorials of their struggle for the 
preservation of their goods. They and their wives 
could flee into the forts till the marauders had 
passed by; children, old men, and cattle were 
hurriedly secured in the towers of refuge, and all 
that was not so secured was swept away by the 
plunderer’s hand. The memoirs of such a state of 
society have survived the actual facts, and even the 
ecclesiastical architecture of the Borders is in keep¬ 
ing with the features which distinguished all other 

Besides its general aspect, St. Michael’s Church 
has a more distinctive mark of military use in an 
hexagonal turret which rises at the south-east 
corner of the chancel. This turret is reached by a 
staircase inside the church, and shows that it was 
built for a watch-tower, and was arranged to hold a 
beacon. Besides being places of refuge, the peel- 
towers were also centres for the watch which kept 
nightly guard against the Scots. It was the chief 
duty of the Lords Warden of the Marches to 
organise the defence of the Borders. Each village 
was bound to send its men to watch at stated 
places, and when the Scots crossed the Border, 
the warning message was blazed by beacons from 
one watch to another. The secluded position of 
Alnwick Castle left it a little outside the beacon 
range, and the church was called into requisition 

to furnish a spot whence the beacon on Heiferlaw 
Bank, some three miles to the north, could be more 
clearly seen. 

The main part of the church, as it now is, dates 
from the reign of Henry VI. The north was faith¬ 
ful to the blouse of Lancaster, and in 1463 Queen 
Margaret was preparing for the last struggle, which 
ended in the disastrous battles of Iiedgeley Moor 
and Hexham. In that year Henry VI., in considera¬ 
tion of the fact that Alnwick had been three times 
plundered by the rebels, granted a charter which 
conferred on the burgesses tolls and customs toward 
the walling of the town, and “ towards the making 
and repair of the parish church.” So well did the 
burgesses use the privileges granted to them that 
their church, which they then built, has needed no 
subsequent additions, and remains one of the finest 
and least altered of the northern churches. The low- 
pitched roof of the nave, rising with a gable over the 
chancel, is a feature strange to the southern eye, 
though not uncommon in Northumbrian churches. 

Inside the church are some beautifully-carved 
capitals to the pillars of the nave. The ornamenta¬ 
tion of vine leaves and twisted sprigs shows greater 
freedom than was common in Perpendicular work. 
Two stone statues are also found inside the church; 
they were discovered buried in 1811. One is a 
“ St. Sebastian the other the figure of a king, most 
probably Henry VI. A lectern of old iron-work 
still holds the Book of the Homilies, attached by a 
chain, and in the vestry stands a large oak chest 
of ancient workmanship, carved with a stag hunt 
and grotesque animals, which recall the motives of 
Lombard decoration. Its history is not known, so 
that it gives no clue to Northumbrian art in early 

In early days, however, the church of Alnwick 
was not of great importance. Alnwick was not even 
an ancient parish, but depended ecclesiastically on its 
abbey, a Prsemonstratensian foundation of the date 
of 1147. The Norman baron, Eustace Fitz-Jolm, 
did not think that his work was done when he had 
finished his great castle at Alnwick. He went on 
to provide for the salvation of himself and his 
ancestors by the foundation of a religious corpora¬ 
tion. Nothing shows more clearly the refining in¬ 
fluence of monasticism than does the care and taste 
displayed by the monks in the selection of sites for 
their secluded life. Alnwick Abbey was built on a 
flat piece of meadow-land, by the side of the river 
Alne, a little distance from the castle. Sheltered from 
the north by tree-clad hills, it was girt in on the 
south by the cliff that rose on the opposite bank of 
the river, which flowed round it in a semicircular 
course. Near enough to the castle to claim its pro¬ 
tection, the abbey yet enjoyed a picturesque solitude 



of its own. Under the shelter of the Northumbrian 
earls it prospered, and received rich endowments 
from most of the chief families on the Border. It 
ranked as one of the great religious houses of Eng¬ 
land, and its abbots were often employed in high 
affairs. It was wealthy, and was a centre of learning 
and of religious life. Miracles were wrought at 
Alnwick Abbey by means of a curious relic, the foot 
of Simon de Montfort. When the great earl fell 
at Evesham, and his corpse lay mutilated on the 
field, his friend John de Yesey cut off a foot and 
brought it to Alnwick, where it was enclosed in a 
shrine of silver, and the sight of it cured many men 
of their diseases. This reverence to Earl Simon is a 
curious instance of the way in which the mediaeval 
church absorbed patriotic sentiment, and lent itself 
to the popular feeliug. It is not strange that Simon 
should be reverenced in Northumberland, so far away 
from the scene of his exploits; for he was connected 
in a way with the district, as lord of the manor of 
Dunstanborough, where, after his forfeiture, Thomas 
of Lancaster built his mighty castle. 

Alnwick Abbey fell, with the rest of the mo¬ 
nasteries, before Henry VIII.’s commissioners. It 
was more completely destroyed than most monastic 
buildings, since its nearness to the town made it a 
useful quarry for the burghers. Bemnants of its 
masonry are still noticeable in the buildings of Aln¬ 
wick, and it has now been entirely swept away save 
the entrance tower, which was probably used as a 
dwelling-house by the purchaser of the abbey lands. 
The lands of the abbey have now passed into the 
hands of the Percys, and 
form part of the park. The 
entrance tower, which still 
remains, is a massive struc¬ 
ture of the fifteenth century, 
a good example of the late 
Perpendicular style. But all 
that was most characteristic 
of the abbey buildings has 
disappeared, and the gate¬ 
way only serves as a re¬ 
minder of the historic interest 
which once attached to a 
spot sufficiently attractive 
through its sylvan beauty. 

Alnwick Park and its 
neighbourhood are rich in 
other memorials of the tur¬ 
bulent days of Border raids. 

On a hill-top not far from 
the abbey is a cross marking 
the spot where Malcolm Can- 
more, King of Scotland, was 
slain in 1093, while ravaging 

Alnwick. Close by it are the remains of a chapel 
of St. Leonard, founded about 1200 that mass might 
be said for Malcolm's soul. Another cross not far 
distant marks the spot where William the Lion sur¬ 
rendered himself prisoner to Ranulf Glanvil in 1174. 

If a great portion of Alnwick Park consists of the 
domains of Alnwick Abbey, much of the remainder 
once belonged to another religious foundation, Hulne 
Priory, the first Carmelite monastery in England, 
founded in 1240. It is said that a Northumbrian 
knight, Ralph Fresborne, went with Richard, Earl 
of Cornwall, to the Holy Land, and there, impressed 
by the piety of the friars on Mount Carmel, brought 
some of them back with him to England. They 
chose for their new abode the site of Hulne Priory, 
because it reminded them of Mount Carmel; for 
Carmel was on a hill, with the river Kislion flowing 
below, and a forest beside it. It is true that the 
site of Hulne corresponds with this, but probably 
many other places had equal resemblance to Carmel 
on those grounds. The site must have been a savage 
and solitary place when first the monks settled there; 
now it is as fair a spot as the eye could wish to rest 
upon. Built upon a projecting spur of rising land 
above the river Alne, it is backed by rich woods, and 
commands a lovely view of a hill that rises steep in 
front on the other side of the river, rich below with 
heather, and clad on the top with waving pines. 

Hulne Priory was neither a large nor a wealthy 
foundation : it was too near its powerful neighbour, 
Alnwick Abbey, which entirely overshadowed it. Yet 
the Carmelites were men of learning, and the library 
of Hulne was large—it pos¬ 
sessed one hundred and four¬ 
teen manuscripts. The dis¬ 
cipline of the Carmelites was 
vigorous. Each friar had a 
coffin for his cell, and slept 
on straw; every morning he 
dug a shovelful of earth for 
his grave, and crept on his 
knees to prayer. Silence and 
solitude and rigorous fasting 
were enjoined on all, and the 
stern simplicity of their life 
is still visible in the remains 
of their buildings. 

Hulne Priory, from its 
greater solitude, has escaped 
the destroyer more success¬ 
fully than its neighbour, Aln¬ 
wick Abbey. The porter'’s 
lodge and the curtain-wall 
that enclosed the priory 
still stand, and the ruins 
enable us to trace the 

the porter’s lodge, hulne priory. 



plan. The remains are 
not large in extent, and 
have been much tam¬ 
pered with, but we can 
see the division into an 
outer and inner group. 
All secular buildings are 
placed apart—the great 
hall, the bake-house, 
brew-house, farm-build¬ 
ings, and bed-chambers 
for strangers, also a 
chapel where they might 
do their devotions. Be¬ 
yond these were the 
buildings for the friars, 
clustering round a cen¬ 
tral cloister, which was 
well fitted for pious 
meditation. The remains show a simple, unadorned 
style of architecture, yet they have the elegance and 
grace which mark the Early English work, and mostly 
belong to the original structure of 1240. Some rude 
stone statues still remain, which give a vivid picture 
of monastic life. One represents a friar preaching 
with a face of deep eagerness, like a revivalist of the 
present day; another is of a brother in an ecstacy of 
devotion ; a third is full of quaint humour, and shows 
the porter touching his cowl to the prior who has 
just entered the gate. Yet even this abode of severe 
devotion bears the marks of its connection with the 

Border land. The most important of its remaining 
buildings is an embattled tower of refuge for the 
brethren before the invasions of the Scots. It was a 
benefaction of one of the Earls of Northumberland \ 
the inscription is still preserved, which tells that— 

“ In the year of Crist Jhu MCCCCXXXXVIII. 

This towr was bilded. by Sir heh Percy 

The fourth Erie of Northumberland of gret hon and worth 

That espoused Maud ye good lady full of virtue and bout 

Daught’r to Sir William harb’st right noble and hardy 

Erie of Pembrock whose soulis god save 

And with his grace eosarve ye builder of this tower.” 

The park is full of lovely views, of which 
the most renowned is that from the hill of Brislee 
opposite to Hulne Priory. There is built amongst 
the trees a tower with a cresset on the top, in 
which bonfires blaze on occasions of great festivity. 
Thence the eye glances over the whole extent of 
the park, the town of Alnwick and, beyond, the 
sea, whose coast is marked by the castles of Bambo- 
rough, D unstanborough, 
and Warkworth, while 
off it lies the little Co¬ 
quet Island and breaks 
the expanse of blue. 

Westward is seen a 
lovely stretch of broken 
moorland country, over 
which rises the fine 
outline of the Cheviot 
Hills. M. Creighton. 


I F ever there were an artist whose works and ways 
expressed the spirit of his time, it was Benvenuto 
Cellini, the Florentine. Not only the mode of his 
achievements, but their variety and versatility were 
expressly characteristic of that wonderful period. 
He worked in gold and silver and bronze and marble. 
He engraved gems, he cut dies for coins, he set 
jewels, he restored antique statues, lie carved new 
ones ; he produced marvels of minute and delicate 
tracery in the precious metals, and colossal works in 
bronze and marble, which were large in conception 
and ambitious in execution; he directed the Pope’s 
artillery in the castle of St. Angelo, and helped to 
fortify the gates of Florence for Duke Cosimo de’ 
Medici. By a peculiar grace of the capricious fortune 
that presides over the survival of those children of 
the brain called books, we have preserved to us the 
biography of Benvenuto Cellini written by his own 
hand, or at least dictated by his own tongue. And 

the volume is warm with life to this day. Benvenuto 
has infused his own intense vitality into its pages. 
To open them is to behold the “ Cinque-Cento ” as 
it lived and moved and had its being; while for the 
man himself, he stands before us in full daylight, as 
clear and real a figure as any in history, or—which is 
saying more—in fiction. 

It has often struck me that the book should have 
a special interest for us English, inasmuch as Benve¬ 
nuto’s portrait of himself has many traits of a certain 
typ e of character common in the works of our great 
Elizabethan writers : such, I mean, as the Bobadil of 
Ben Jonson, and the Parolles of Shakespeare. There 
are passages of the Florentine’s autobigraphy in 
the true vein of Jonsonian comedy. The writer con¬ 
sciously, the artist unconsciously, reveals the absurdi¬ 
ties and extravagances which belonged to the manners 
of the day. And in the extraordinary mixture of 
braggadocio, acuteness, valour, cowardice, bluster, 



frankness, and falsehood which Cellini attributes to 
himself and to many of his contemporaries, we have a 
striking confirmation of the degree to which the rare 
poet of “ humours ” drew from the life. The peculiar 
swagger of the swashbuckler was a foreign fashion, 
no doubt; and in the sixteenth century we imported 
our foreign fashions more largely from Italy than 
from France. It would be a curious study to follow 
the modifications which Italian millanteria under¬ 
went in the course of its acclimatisation among us 
rougher and stronger islanders, and how the English¬ 
man’s deep-rooted contempt and distrust of brag 
come out in the humorous view taken by our writers 
of these hectoring heroes. 

Benvenuto Cellini began his life with the begin¬ 
ning of that great century known in Italy as the 
“ Cinque-Cento.” He was born on the night of the 1st 
of November, a.d. 1500. His parents were Giovanni 
Cellini and Maria Lisabetta Granacci, his wife, both 
Florentine citizens. Benvenuto’s grandfather, Andrea, 
was an architect; his father, Giovanni, was also an 
architect, and moreover an excellent and enthusiastic 
musician. The derivation which Benvenuto gives of 
the name of Florence (in Italian Fiorenza or Firenze) 
is amusingly characteristic of the man individually, 
and the Florentine nationally. After speaking of 
the ancient edifices of the city which were made in 
imitation of those of Rome, he proceeds : “ It is said 
that those who builded them were Julius Caesar and 
sundry Roman gentlemen, who having conquered 
and captured Fiesole, raised up a city in this place” 
[i.e.y the present site of Florence). “Julius Caesar 
had an eminent and valiant captain named Fiorino 
of Cellino, which is a castle near to Monte Fiascone, 
within two miles. This Fiorino having placed his 
quarters below Fiesole, where Florence now stands, in 
order to be near to the river Arno for the commodity 
of his soldiers, all those who had business with 
the said captain would say, ‘ Let us go to Firenze ! ’ 
both because the said captain was called Fiorino, 
and because the spot by its nature produced a great 
abundance of flowers. Thus at the beginning of the 
city, Julius Caesar deeming this an admirable name 
and appropriate, and because the names of flowers 
are of good augury, bestowed on the said city this 
name of Florence. And also to show favour to his 
valiant captain. . . . This we find chronicled, and 
thus we believe ourselves to be descended from that 
worthy.” The man’s complacent and undoubting 
faith in this choice bit of etymology and genealogy 
is significant. 

Although Benvenuto speaks of his father as being 
an architect, it is plain that Giovanni Cellini did 
not follow the profession exclusively, or even chiefly. 
After the fashion of his time, when the subdivision 
of labour in art and industry was little practised, 

Giovanni combined in his own person the exercise of 
several various arts and handicrafts. He built organs 
with wooden pipes, harpsichords—“ the best and finest 
then made”—violas, lutes, and other musical instru¬ 
ments. He occupied himself with what would be 
now called practical engineering, and designed various 
machines. He carved admirably well in ivory; and 
according to his son’s account was “ the first who 
worked well in that art.” But his ruling passion 
was for music; and he set his heart on making his 
son a musician, beginning lo instruct the boy in 
singing, and playing on the flute and horn, from his 
earliest years. He must be added to the long list of 
parents who have vainly striven against the natural 
bent of their sons’ genius. Benvenuto, with the per¬ 
versity of which we have so many examples, detested 
the flute and his music lessons, although he says he 
attained great proficiency as a player before be was 
fifteen. The father and son came at length to a sort of 
compromise : Benvenuto undertaking to practise music 
for a certain time every day, on condition that he was 
allowed to draw and design, and work in a gold¬ 
smith’s shop at other hours. 11 is first master was 
Michelagnolo, father of Baccio Bandinelli,the sculptor, 
between whom and Benvenuto there existed in later 
years a most violent enmity and rivalry. But the 
boy did not remain with Michelagnolo long. At 
fifteen years old he placed himself with another gold¬ 
smith, against his father’s will. This was a certain 
Antonio, surnamed Marcone the Goldsmith; and he 
is stated by his illustrious pupil to have been an 
excellent craftsman and an honest fellow. A boyish 
quarrel with his brother induced Benvenuto to run 
away from home at the age of sixteen. He seems to 
have intended to go to Rome, but not knowing which 
road to take, he found himself at Lucca, whence he 
proceeded to Pisa, and there found employment in 
the shop of a principal goldsmith of the place called 
Master Ulivieri della Chiostra. His stay at Pisa is 
not worth recording here, except for the circumstance 
which he relates of his having assiduously visited the 
Campo Santo, and studied the anticar/lie —antiqui¬ 
ties—which he found there and in other parts of the 
city. He expressly mentions the ancient marble 
sarcophagi which were in the Campo Santo, and 
many of which are to be seen there to this day. 
Later on he is found studying in the same way at 
Rome, where he used to pass days among the ruins, 
drawing and modelling in wax from the pictorial 
and sculptured ornamentation to be found in the. 
half-buried fragments of classic buildings, then more 
numerous, though more neglected, than at the present 
time. And it may not be uninteresting to call atten¬ 
tion *to the fact that this great artist, who, as has been 
observed, expressed so intensely the spirit of his own 
time, nourished his genius and taste by a diligent 



study of antiquity, so far as the conditions of his age 
permitted him to do so. This study in Benvenuto's 
case was far from resulting in the cold and somewhat 
affected formality which is now jeeringly spoken of 
in Italy as the Academic style. The truth is, that 
there is an incalculable difference between imitation 
and assimilation. Art, like all other human things, 
is, and must be, the “ heir of all the ages." But 
heirship does not consist in assuming an ancestor's 
doublet and hose. 

Benvenuto, after about a year's stay in Pisa, 
returned to Florence, and to his old master Marcone; 
and during this period of his life he encountered 
Pietro Torrigiani (or Torrigiano, as Vasari calls him), 
the sculptor, who was then employed in England, 
and offered to take Benvenuto back thither with him. 
Of this Torrigiani two notable circumstances may 
be mentioned: the first being that he designed the 
bronze tomb of our King Henry VII. in Westminster 
Abbey; and the second, of a less creditable nature, 
that it was he who, by a violent blow of his fist, 
broke the nose of the divine Michelangelo Buonarroti. 
As lads they used to study together from the frescoes 
of Masaccio in the church of the Carmine at Florence; 
and Torrigiani boasted that one day, being irritated 
by Michelangelo's sarcasms, he “gave him a mark 
which he would bear with him to his grave." 
Another version is that Torrigiani was moved solely 
by jealousy and hatred of Michelangelo's genius and 
diligence. Certain it is that he was of a violent, 
haughty, and overbearing temper. Benvenuto's de¬ 
scription of him illustrates what has been said above 
about the blustering bullies who furnished types for 
the comedy of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. It 
has an inimitable flavour of Ancient Pistol and his 
compeers. “ This man was of handsome presence, of 
great audacity, and had more the air of a soldier than 
a sculptor; especially in his wonderful gestures, and 
his sonorous voice, with a frowning trick of the eye¬ 
brows enough to overawe any man who knew what 
was what. And every day he boasted of his brave 
doings against those beasts of English." 

In the early days of the reign of Pope Clement 
VII. (the Florentine Giulio de' Medici), in 1523, we 
find Benvenuto in Rome working at his craft as 
a goldsmith, and studying the best models both of 
painting and sculpture. Amongst others he used 
diligently to copy the admirable frescoes of Raphael 
in the Farnesina Palace, then known simply as the 
house of Messer Agostino Chigi, the Sienese banker, 
who built it. One day the wife of Chigi’s brother, 
Madonna Porzia, saw Benvenuto at work there, and 
asked him what was his profession, whether that of 
a painter or sculptor. Upon the young man's reply¬ 
ing that he was a goldsmith, she exclaimed, “You 
di’aw too well for a goldsmith ! " Nevertheless she 

gave him some valuable jewels to set; and he 
acquitted himself of the ctmmission to the lady's 
satisfaction and his own profit. Soon afterwards he 
made a large vase of chiselled silver for the Bishop of 
Salamanca, having obtained the commission by the 
good offices of a certain painter, suvuamed II Fattore, 
a pupil of Raphael. The vase was made and approved, 
and seems to have been one of Cellini's best works at 
that period. He speaks of it in the twelfth chapter of 
his treatise on goldsmith's work. But the affair gave 
rise to a mighty quarrel between the haughty Spanish 
prelate and the no less haughty Italian artificer. 
There were delays in the completion of the work, and 
then delays in the payment for it. And then, some 
slight injury having been done to the vase by a guest 
during the Bishop's absence, it was brought to Cellini 
by his reverence's servants to be repaired, and they 
implored him to make haste about the job, promising 
him to pay any sum he might ask for it. Cellini, 
in fact, did complete the necessary repairs within a 
few hours. But that same evening, the butler of the 
Bishop of Salamanca came running back to Cellini, 
in a great hurry and agitation, to fetch the vase, 
which his master had suddenly asked for to show to 
a friend. Now the work was done and ready; but 
Cellini, after his fashion, took huff at the butler's un¬ 
ceremonious impatience (the man kept crying before 
Cellini had time to speak, “ Quicl$:, quick, give me 
the vase ! "), and answered that he did not choose to 
be quick, but meant to take his time. After a stormy 
scene, during which the butler’s vehemence very 
evidently had the effect of hardening the artist's 
obstinate heart, the man rushed off, threatening to 
return with Spaniards enough to cut the insolent 
craftsman into pieces. This was not altogether an idle 
threat. In the city of the Popes, great men, and above 
all great ecclesiastics, were apt to take very summary 
methods of getting their own way. So Benvenuto 
put himself on the defensive, and when the Bishop's 
servants appeared, some afoot, some on horseback, 
and all armed, the artist showed them the muzzle of 
his arquebuss, and threatened to shoot dead the first 
man who should try to enter his shop. At the same 
time he roared at the full pitch of his voice: “ Ah, 
ruffians, traitors, assassins ! Are shops and houses to 
be ravaged in this way in a city like Rome?" The 
noise brought out a crowd of neighbours, and certain 
Roman gentlemen who happened to be passing took 
part with Cellini and cried, “ Kill the rascals, and 
we will help you !" The affair ended without blood¬ 
shed, for the Bishop's men made off at the sight of 
Benvenuto's firearm; and finally a reconciliation was 
patched up between the prelate and the goldsmith. 
To realise a little what a long way the world has 
travelled since then, we have only to conceive Car¬ 
dinal Howard's footmen bursting into a jeweller's 



shop in the Corso with swords and bludgeons; or Signor 
Augusto Castellani receiving his customers’ servants 
with a cocked pistol in his hand, and the passers-by 
near tbe Fontana Trevi inciting him to fire it. 

During the same year Benvenuto worked for the 
Pope and for some of the highest dignitaries of the 
Papal court, always with increasing reputation. In 
the summer of 1524 there 
occurred a recrudescence of 
the plague which had made 
such ravages in Rome during 
the two preceding years (this 
was also the year of the great 
plague of Milan, described by 
Manzoni in the “ Promessi 
Sposi; ” and the pestilence 
was far more deadly in that 
city than in Rome). Cellini, 
partly to escape during several 
hours at a time from the 
crowded streets, and partly to 
distract his mind from the 
terror of the plague, took the 
habit of visiting the remoter 
and more solitary rains of 
antiquity, accompanied by a 
servant lad who carried his 
master’s arquebuss. The reason 
for carrying the latter was 
that numbers of pigeons built 
and dwelt among these crum¬ 
bling solitudes. And Benve¬ 
nuto, who prided himself 
greatly on being a good shot, 
used to alternate his studies 
of classic works of art, with 
making a good bag of pigeons. 

In the course of these excur¬ 
sions, he made acquaintance 
with sundry overseers who 
directed the labour of the 
peasants working in the vine¬ 
yards. There are large tracts 
of vineyard and market gar¬ 
dens to be found within the 
walls at Rome even at this 
day. When Cellini wrote, a far larger portion of 
land was unbuilt on. The results of his acquaint¬ 
ance with the overseers are enough to make a 
collector’s mouth water. Here are liis own words : 
“ The peasants in digging the ground constantly 
found antique medals, agates, cornelians, and cameos; 
even fine jewels also, such as emeralds, sapphires, 
diamonds, and rubies. These overseers sometimes had 
these things of the peasants for very little money, 
and I frequently paid to the overseers for such objects 

as many gold crowns as they had given giulj to the 
peasants.” (A giulio was a coin worth about fifty 
centimes of modern Italian money.) Benvenuto 
confesses that in selling the cameos, &c., to the 
Cardinals in Rome, he often made a thousand per 
cent. He describes three of the gems which thus 
came into his hands. One was the head of a dolphin 
carved in an emerald; another, 
a magnificent topaz as big as 
a large filbert, with a head 
of Minerva finely cut on it. 
The third, says Cellini, “ was 
a cameo representing a Her¬ 
cules binding the three-headed 
Cerberus. This was of such 
beauty, and made with such 
admirable skill, that our great 
Michelangelo declared he had 
never seen anything so mar¬ 
vellous. Again, amongst 
many bronze medals I chanced 
upon one bearing a head of 
Jupiter. This medal was the 
largest I had ever seen, and 
the head so well done that 
its equal was not to be found. 
Upon the reverse were divers 
little figures similarly well 
executed. I should have many 
important things to say on 
this subject, but will not 
dilate on it, in order not to 
be too long, as I have said 

During this and two or 
three succeeding years, Ben¬ 
venuto Cellini worked not only 
at his own branch of art but 
in various others, with pro¬ 
digious activity. Moved, as 
he says, by an “ honourable 
envy” (una onesta invidia), he 
vied with the most renowned 
craftsmen, with jewellers, 
silversmiths, seal-engravers, 
engravers of medals on steel, 
and even workers in enamel. He has left a monu¬ 
ment of his acquaintance with the theory and 
practice of all these arts in his treatises, “ Dell’ 
Oreficeria” and “Della Scultura.” The first, though 
simply bearing the title “ On Goldsmith’s Work,” 
treats of jewellery, niello, enamelling, coining, and 
other branches. The second minutely describes the 
art of casting in bronze, and discusses the several 
methods of choosing marble for sculpture, of model¬ 
ling in clay, and so on. To my mind, there can be 



no more inspiriting' example for workers in all de¬ 
partments of art than the example given by Ben¬ 
venuto Cellini. True, he was a man of undoubted 
genius and extraordinary vigour ; and genius and 
vigour are not given to all men. But his life teaches 
us the old and never too often repeated lesson, that 
even genius is unavailing without hard work and 
hearty work. Besides, there is in every mind that 

every other true artist, “needs must love the highest" 
when he saw it. 

An incident, which had its sequel and completion 
some years later in Ferrara, may here be mentioned, 
as showing to what excellence in his art Benvenuto 
had by this time attained. There came to Borne a 
certain famous surgeon, named Giacomo Berengario 
da Carpi, who was, moreover, a man of great taste 


(National Museum, Florence.) 

possesses but a spark of the true artistic spirit, a 
touch of that feeling which exclaimed, “ Anch ho son 
pittore ! ” The works of the great masters move 
such minds to an onesta invidia, as Benvenuto has it. 
That he himself was constantly actuated by this sort 
of noble emulation, is beyond doubt. And with all 
his wild vanities and irritabilities and braggadocio, 
his enthusiasm for the truly beautiful and excellent 
in art, his unwavering worship and loyalty towards 
Michelangelo, and other instances, prove that he, like 

and intelligence in the fine arts. One day, chancing 
to pass by Benvenuto Cellini's shop, he observed certain 
drawings which the artist had before him, and among 
them designs for sundry fanciful little vases (parecchi 
bizzarri vasetti ) which Benvenuto had made for his 
own pleasure and amusement. Messer Giacomo the 
surgeon must have had a seeing eye, for he at once 
selected these designs, and ordered Benvenuto to 
execute the vases for him in silver. “ The which," 
says Benvenuto, “ I did with the greatest willingness. 



being after my own idea” (secondo il mio capriccio). 
The vases were made, paid for, and delivered. Messer 
Giacomo displayed his purchases to the Pope, and 
soon afterwards went away from Rome. Some six 
years later, Benvenuto being then in Ferrara, a gen¬ 
tleman of the court there boasted to him that he 
cared nothing for the work of modern silversmiths, 

him for the surgeon Giacomo da Carpi. At first, 
of course, lie was not believed when he claimed it. 
The case was in truth embarrassing ; for the Ferrarese 
gentleman, in his enthusiasm for the antique, had 
declared that for the last thousand years no man had 
been born capable of copying, much less originating, 
such a work. To which Benvenuto, in his usual 


having seen with his own eyes an antique silver vase 
of such marvellous workmanship as to make all con¬ 
temporary efforts in that sort appear very poor and 
mean by comparison. He, the courtier, possessed in¬ 
deed a cast of this inimitable masterpiece of anti¬ 
quity, which he would, as a great favour, show to 
the Florentine artificer. The cast was hr ought with 
much pomp and ceremony, and exhibited. And lo ! 
it was Benvenuto’s own vase, designed and made by 

trenchant manner, retorted that the vase was indeed a 
fine piece of work, but that he, having assiduously 
laboured and studied for six years since making it, 
could now produce a finer, and in fact had done so. 
It appeared afterwards that the surgeon had passed 
off the vase upon Duke Alfonso d’Este as an antique; 
and had invented a cock-and-bull story about his 
having obtained it for a cure effected on a great 
nobleman at Rome. T. A. Trollope. 


T HE proverb that “ the world knows little of its 
greatest men ” has seldom been more thoroughly 
exemplified than in the personal history of Sir 
Christopher Wren. Miss Phillimore is Wren’s latest 
biographer, 'and her work has been carefully and 

* (1) “Sir Christopher Wren: His Family and his Times.” 
By Lucy Phillimore. London: Kegan Paul and Co. (1881.) 

(2) “ The Towers and Steeples Designed by Sir Christopher 
Wren.” By Andrew Taylor, A.RI.B.A., &c. London: B. T. 
Batsford, High Holborn. 

thoroughly done. There can be little doubt, too, that 
she has exhausted the materials which are, or are ever 
likely to be, available. Her sketch of the accessory 
conditions of the main subject, notwithstanding an 
undisguised leaning towards the monarchical and 
prelatic view of the history of the time, is accurate 
and interesting. But the actual facts concerning 
the personal life of the great architect which she has 
recorded are exceedingly meagre; and we are once 
more confirmed in the opinion that there is very little 



to be known about Wren himself, and that we must 
look for the man almost exclusively in bis works, 
“ Si monumentum requiris, cireumspice/'’ And in spite 
of the reckless outrage which has been done upon many 
of his achievements by the vanity of contemporary 
architects, who have dared to attempt so-called im¬ 
provements on work they had not the sense to under¬ 
stand ; in spite of the destruction wrought by a 
churchmanship which sees no scope for religion except 
on one day in seven, and pulls down churches whole- 

appreciation of Wren’s design, can have accepted 
as his either the lantern of St. Mary’s, Alderman- 
bury, or the spire of St. James’s, Westminster (or 
Piccadilly, as it is generally called)—neither of 
which is worthy of him at his worst. Again, in 
spite of Mr. Ferguson, I have never been able to 
accept the western towers of Westminster Abbey 
as a success, especially in the face of Wren’s 
recorded intention of following the style of the 
abbey in them: a style which, though he never 


(From a Drawing by C. R. Cockerell.) 

sale because they are only wanted on Sundays, 
London is still in great part a monument of Wren’s 
genius, and those who have eyes to see need never be 
at a loss to know the great artist as he would have 
best liked to be known. 

The second book, therefore, under notice, brief 
as is the letterpress, being abundantly illustrated, 
contains more of the man than any biography 
can bring to light. It seems to be a painstaking 
and careful little work; and though the sketches 
are of only moderate merit, the collection of so 
many designs in one volume is valuable and inte¬ 
resting. One rather wonders, by the waj r , how 
the author, who generally shows a fairly intelligent 

thoroughly understood or valued it, he could handle 
with very fair effect. It is satisfactory to be able 
to correct Mr. Taylor on the authority of Miss 
Phillimore in, at any rate, most of these cases on the 
ground of fact; and for the remainder I am prepared 
to go bail for my opinion. As for the tower of St. 
Mary’s, Warwick, lovers of Wren need not resent Mr. 
Taylor’s inclusion of it among his towers, as it is a 
fine structure in its way. But it lacks the breadth 
and concentration which were characteristic of Wren’s 
handiwork; Miss Phillimore says it is not his; and 
nothing but overwhelming testimony would convince 
me that it is. 

In all great careers there are two factors, faculty 



and circumstance, and 
these are meted out in 
very varied proportions. 
The triumph of faculty 
over adverse conditions 
is heroic and ennobling 1 
from a moral point of 
view, but the result is 
often saddening. When 
mediocrity is raised to 
eminence by prosperous 
influences, the effect is 
neither elevating nor 
satisfactory. The cases 
in which the highest 
faculty meets the most 
favourable conditions of 
circumstance are neces¬ 
sarily rare; but Wren’s 
was emphatically one of 
the most conspicuous. 

It may be interesting 
to consider how many 
circumstances co-ope¬ 
rated towards providing 
for his powers the fullest 
scope. In the first place, 
lie inherited the grati¬ 
tude of the Royalist 
party, which returned 
to power just at the 
time when he was of 
an age to profit by its 
interest. Then,his scien¬ 
tific training had taught 
him to approach archi¬ 
tecture from its prac¬ 
tical side ; and while his 
structural knowledge, 
acquired simply as a 
branch of general cul¬ 
ture, fitted him to enter 
on the post of King’s 
Surveyor, his eminence 
in science gave him an 
exceptionally strong po¬ 
sition—the position of 
an equal among those 
who had patronage at 
their command. Having 
thus reached a point of 
eminence which his few 
early works had fully 
justified, such a field of 
operation as no man 
ever had before was 

suddenly laid open to 
him. The Great Fire 
swept old London away, 
and left Wren a new 
London to build. Even 
then his good fortune 
was not exhausted. 
Though by that time 
a thoroughly trained 
architect, his powers had 
scarcely culminated, and 
the greatest of the works 
which fell to his lot was 
almost beyond him. The 
many delays which oc¬ 
curred in settling the 
design of St. Paul’s were 
really of the utmost 
benefit to his fame. 
Those who have studied 
the drawings bequeathed 
to All Saints’ Library, 
in Oxford, will see of 
how many discarded de¬ 
signs the present cathe¬ 
dral is the outcome, and 
will trace a progress from 
comparative crudity to 
the grand maturity we 
know. No doubt many 
will regret that the 
earlier design, known 
by the model lately on 
view at South Kensing¬ 
ton, was not adhered 
to; * but even this was 
produced only after pro¬ 
tracted study, and though 
it has its points of supe¬ 
riority, especially as to 
the interior effect, I 

* Canon Venables has lately 
advocated the adoption of this 
design for the proposed cathe¬ 
dral at Liverpool. His argu¬ 
ments in its favour are very 
worthy of consideration, hut 
does he think that the public 
will find a million and a half, 
or possibly two millions, for 
the purpose of carrying it 
out ? Or if the design is to 
he adapted to a much smaller 
scale, a faculty not much in¬ 
ferior to Wren’s will he fully 
taxed; and where, among 
living architects, does he ex¬ 
pect to find the necessary 
qualification P 



doubt if, on the whole, the 
result could have been as satis¬ 
factory as the existing St. 
Paul's. Nor was this all. 
Having' gained full maturity 
of power as well as perfect 
opportunity, he had the good 
fortune to live to complete 
his building, and at a very 
advanced age was able to view 
a new cathedral, and almost a 
new city, of which he was the 

No doubt his path was not 
altogether smooth. The very 
delays which were so useful 
to his fame must have been a 
trouble to him at the moment; 
and the mean and unworthy 
treatment to which he was 
subjected in his later years, still more his final 
dismissal by George I.—the enemy of art as of all 
that was noble and elevating—were no light burdens 
to bear. Still, these misfortunes had no effect either 
on his career or his reputation, and if is from this 
point of view alone that I am now considering 
the circumstances in which he was placed. This 
being so, it is clear that in his case an unbroken 
series of favourable conditions gave occasion for the 
full development of a faculty that was perhaps un¬ 
equalled in his field of labour; and that it was his 
fortune to turn to good account, and almost to trans¬ 
form into a fortunate event, one of the greatest 
calamities in history. It will be useful to attempt 
to arrive at some estimate of the extent and character 
of the changes which he effected in architecture; and 
to do this we must try to form an idea of the state 
of art as he found it and as he left it. 

Gothic architecture, as every one knows, having 
passed through the three leading styles, popularly 
known as Early English, Decorated, and Tudor, deve¬ 
loped in the later phases of the style last-named a 
luxuriance and a richness which were a symptom of 
approaching degradation. In the time of Henry VIII. 
it .showed signs of losing its purity and its accuracy 
of detail; and these symptoms of deterioration had 
scarcely become apparent, when the effects of the 
Renaissance, which was then sweeping over Europe— 
involving in the change not art only, but literature, 
learning, and the whole range of thought—-began to 
be visible in architecture. A little later the fashion of 
travel became general, and an acquaintance with foreign 
—and especially with Italian—styles set the popular 
taste in a new direction, while the marvellous develop¬ 
ment of brilliant fancy and almost reckless enterprise, 
which was characteristic of the reign of Elizabeth, 

gave an impetus to schemes of building in the novel 
fashion and on a noble scale. Rut, while in Italy, 
where Gothic design had never really taken root, 
the aim in architecture was towards pure Classic, in 
England the Gothic influence still held its own, and 
caused a fusion of the two elements; in varying pro¬ 
portions as time wore on, and the latter influence 
gained upon the earlier. In all the buildings which 
are generaly classed as Elizabethan and Jacobean, 
and which form one of the most pleasing types 
of national architecture, the motive is the same. 
The old mediaeval architecture is the groundwork of 
the design, and the influence of the revival of clas¬ 
sicism is apparent in the details and in increased 
scope and magnificence. Those who are familiar with 
such works as Audley End, Blickling, Hatfield, and 
Bramshill, will be at no loss either to understand 
the nature of the fusion, or to assign to each style 
its part in the general result. This was the state 
of architecture as it was found by Wren’s great 
predecessor, Inigo Jones. 

Jones had travelled in Italy, and had studied Italian 
architecture closely and accurately, and before his 

st. bride’s, fleet street. 

st. Andrew’s, holborn. 



impulse the lingering tradition of Gothic disappeared. 
It is useless to discuss whether his influence was or was 
not favourable to art. Many will find a charm in the 
earlier transitional style which will be lacking to them 
in his work. At any rate, the change he inaugurated 
was inevitable, and he only hastened an end which 
had long been approaching. As a designer, within 
the bounds which his own bent and the tenden¬ 
cies of culture in England had set for him, his 
work is very perfect. Such an achievement as the 
banqueting-hall of Whitehall, which 
in his great design was merely one 
feature of a magnificent whole, still 
holds its own as a perfect example 
of pure classic design. But Inigo 
Jones, though a consummate artist, 
was an artist of limited ideas. He 
had learnt his lesson thoroughly, 
and was fully competent to import 
the best Italian design; but he 
seems to have made no effort either 
to give it a national type or to 
make it elastic aud adaptable. 

It would be unfair to take 
this shortcoming as a proof of any 
defect of faculty. As we have seen 
before, faculty can only be appraised 
in relation to circumstance; and in 
the case of Inigo Jones, circum¬ 
stance was as adverse as in Wren’s 
case it was favourable. His greatest 
enterprises were brought to a close, 
and his career was ruined, by the 
Commonwealth. The Common¬ 
wealth was as complete an inter¬ 
regnum in the development of 
art as it was in the history of 
monarchy. The influences which 
were becoming predominant under 
Charles I. were suspended. When, 
with the monarchy, a new age of 
art returned, the conditions were 
greatly changed. The more recent tendencies in 
architecture had grown old, and in the diminishing 
perspective were already less detached from the older. 

The work of any great artist is a resultant, 
partly of the influences which he inherits, partly of 
the original power he brings to bear upon his task. 
The brief retrospect which I have given will show us 
what Wren found ready to his hand, and the better 
enable us to see what he was able to accomplish. 
The nearest and most direct influence to which he 
succeeded was doubtless that of Inigo Jones; but 
this, as we have seen, w r as so far removed in time as 
to have ceased to predominate. Beyond this were 
the monuments of the Jacobean and Elizabethan 

styles, with their picturesque and fanciful features, 
their quaint lanterns and towers, displaying, as a 
general characteristic, a freedom and elasticity of 
style which was unknown to the later Classicism. 
Beyond these, again, were the stately products of the 
Gothic styles; and it must be borne in mind that, 
though mediaeval architecture had fallen into dis¬ 
repute and contempt, England was still studded with 
noble towers, which could not fail to delight and to 
influence a genius of so wide a scope as Wren’s— 
especially as he was detached by 
circumstances from any dominant 
tradition. What ideas Wren de¬ 
rived directly from Continental 
architecture it is impossible to say. 
A journey to Paris at the beginning 
of his career is the only one that is 
recorded of him. To Italy he never 
went; and though, no doubt, the 
fashion of style which was in the 
air, and was constantly invading 
England—in travellers’ tales, in 
drawings, in the various treatises 
then extant, and in other ways, 
to an extent now impossible to 
determine—must have had its due 
effect upon his design, it is fair 
to conclude that he was educated 
mainly on English examples, and 
was far more than his predecessor 
a genuinely English architect. It 
was mainly from the precedents 
which I have described that his 
works were developed. From classic 
architecture, as he had studied it 
in the work of Inigo Jones, and in 
such books as were available, was 
derived the main character of his 
work as to style; the picturesque 
freedom of the Jacobean methods 
suggested an elasticity which was 
unknown to the purer type; while 
the Gothic monuments of England taught him noble 
form and striking outline. All of these he fused in 
the varied and consistent style which he created. 

Nowhere is the scope of his genius more apparent 
than in his towers and spires; and with the help of" 
Mr. Taylor’s book an excellent idea can be formed, 
both of the extent of his creative faculty and of 
the proportion in which his design was influenced by 
the suggestions of previous work. These towers may 
be generally grouped under three classes : first, those 
which are towers proper; secondly, those of which the 
tower proper is the principal, and the lantern or spire 
the subordinate, feature; and lastly, those in which 
the spire is of equal importance with the tower. 




Of the first class may be mentioned, St. Michael’s, 
Cornhill; St. Mary’s, Aldermanbury; St. Alban's,Wood 
Street; St. Olave's, Jewry; St. Mary's, Somerset; 
All Hallows', Lombard Street; St. George's, Botolph 
Lane; St. Andrew's, Holborn ; St. Clement's, Cle¬ 
ment's Lane; and St. Andrew in the Wardrobe. The 
three first of these are thoroughly Gothic in general 
design. St. Michael's, Cornhill, indeed, is very 
closely studied from Magdalen Tower at Oxford, 
from which it differs mainly in the sections of the 
mouldings. They only depart from those of the 
original because Wren had not studied Gothic detail 
with sufficient accuracy to give them correctly, and 
not, as in other examples of his manner, because 
he altered them with a view to giving a classic 
turn to the design. It is worthy of note that 
Wren in his attempts at Gothic, in spite of the 
grave defect of inadequate knowledge, is often 
far more successful in the general result than many 
of the most distinguished modern Gothicists, who 
know nothing but mediaeval architecture and its 
details. Probably there are few to be found who 
will not allow the tower in question, with all its 
defects, to be far more truly Gothic than the vulgar 
porch which an eminent hand has Rreverently added. 
As for St. Mary's, Aldermanbury, it is no doubt 
a rebuilding of the ancient tower with only slight 
modification. It in many respects resembles the 
central tower of Canterbury Cathedral, from which 
Wren may have obtained some hints for its construc¬ 
tion. The base of the tower is original, and the 
marks of the fire may still be seen in the interior 
of its lower stage. St. Alban's, Wood Street, has 
a good honest Gothic tower of excellent design, and 
is only defective, as was inevitable, in respect of de¬ 
tail. These towers may be taken as a group apart, 
designed by Wren as strict and deliberate essays 
in Gothic architecture. The tower of Christchurch, 
known as Tom Tower, is a more original but less 
successful effort in the same direction. The broken 
outline at the springing of the dome is quite as 
opposed to the principles of Gothic design as it is 
to those of dignified effect in any style. But it is 
a mistake which is constantly made in Victorian 
Gothic, without the excuse of ignorance on the part 
of its authors, and with far less ability of design to 
redeem it. In the other towers the aim has simply 
been to read into Classic some features of the Gothic. 
Speaking generally, the fenestration remains very 
similar to that which is characteristic of mediaeval 
examples, and the proportion and distribution of 
members are not unlike. But the tracery disappears 
from the windows; the section- of the cornice is 
classicised in form, and in place of paterae we find 
a course of dentils and consoles; the pinnacles are 
replaced by urns, obelisks, and cartouches; and the 

tracery of the parapet is changed either to plain 
masonry or balustrading. The form of tower thus 
obtained appears to me a perfectly legitimate and 
satisfactory one, and the handling of the proportion 
to be quite as able as in good examples of the earlier 
type. This group of towers shows much variety 
of design within the limits set by great simplicity of 
outline, together with a thorough understanding of 
the elements of effect. 

It is, however, in the combination of tower with 
spire or lantern that Wren's peculiar genius of inven¬ 
tion is best displayed. In dividing the works which 
display this characteristic into the two classes par¬ 
ticularised above, a somewhat arbitrary line must be 
taken, as it is difficult exactly to define between lan¬ 
tern and spire. The following, however, may be taken 
as well-defined lanterns : St. Benet’s, Paul's Wharf; 
St. Mary Magdalene, Old Fish Street; St. Anne and 
St. Agnes; and St. Michael Bassishaw. The lantern 
of St. Benet's, Paul’s Wharf, has been placed first 
in order as the one which most nearly approaches 
the type of the old Jacobean lantern as Wren may 
have seen it at Blickling or elsewhere. The termi¬ 
nation of the tower by a bold cornice, immediately 
above which springs the lantern, is remarkably 
similar in character to some of these Jacobean 



01 o 

iW 1 IV 

examples; and the treatment of the lower portion of 
the tower, with its square mullioned windows topped 
with bold cornices, goes far to confirm the suspicion 
that such monuments had not been left unstudied. 
The Jacobean feeling gives the note to many of 
the spires, which show the same type developed into 
more importance; and with 
such a starting-point it needed 
only great fertility of inven¬ 
tion to reach by easy stages 
such a grand culmination as 
the spire of St. Mary-le-Bow. 

There is no greater proof 
of imbecile invention than the 
tendency to adorn equally all 
parts of a design. In Wren’s 
lanterns and in his smaller 
spires the principle of subor¬ 
dination is conspicuous. He 
seems always to concentrate 
all the richness of the design 
upon a single feature. In such 
examples as St. James’s, Gar- 
lick Hill, and St. Stephen’s, 

Walbrook, the tower below the 
parapet is of extreme severity, 
while the spirilet is of great 
richness; and the effect thus 
achieved is of a far higher 
value than could have been 
attained by the equal distri¬ 
bution of ornamentation. The 
distinction of the lantern from 
the spire is merely a question 
of degree, but all really im¬ 
portant features surmounting 
towers are best classed with 
the latter. These might well 
be further grouped in three 
divisions, of which the first 
would be the spires proper— 
those most nearly allied to 
their Gothic predecessors ; the 
second, those that might be 
defined as developed lanterns; 
and the third, those in which 
the effect was obtained by the grouping of well- 
known classical features. Here, again, the defini¬ 
tion cannot be either accurate or exhaustive, as 
many of the examples before us will appear to have 
equal claims to a place in more than one division. 
Nevertheless, the classification will be fairly applic¬ 
able to the majority of Wren’s spires, and will be 
of special interest as exemplifying the three main 
elements in the constitution of his designs. 

Three of his spires, St. Margaret Pattens, 

St. Swithin’s, Cannon Street, and St. Antholin’s, 
Watling Street, are closely modelled on ordinary 
Gothic types. A fourth, St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East, 
is equally Gothic, but Gothic of a comparatively rare 
form, found, so far as I know, only at Newcastle-on- 
Tyne and in Scotland. Of the remaining three, each 
one represents a different type 
of spire. It is well known that 
the principal problem which 
has presented itself in the suc¬ 
cessful designing of spires, and 
which has been the main motive 
of their various forms, is the 
necessary transition from the 
square tower to the octagonal 
superstructure. Wren solved 
this problem in various ways, 
both with precedent and with¬ 
out it. In St. Margaret Pat¬ 
tens he had recourse to the 
ordinary Gothic plan of placing 
jhnnacles at the angles. The 
pinnacles become decorated 
obelisks, and the spire is cut 
up into panels; otherwise there 
is no change. In St. Antho¬ 
lin’s, Watling Street, in my 
opinion the best of Wren’s 
spires proper, now destroyed 
(under episcopal auspices), he 
had recourse to a type well 
known in Normandy. The 
square tower terminates with 
a well-marked cornice, and 
above this is an octagonal per¬ 
pendicular storey, the angles 
left being filled by features 
that are semi-circular in plan 
and terminated by semi-domes. 
They occupy exactly the posi¬ 
tion and perform the functions 
of the spirilets found in known 
examples, and only differ in 
being attached and classicised. 
In St. Swithin’s, Watling 
Street, he had recourse to a 
device of his own, on which he is scarcely to be 
congratulated, though it shows immense courage. 

This was simply to scoop out the top angles of 
the tower, and so obtain an octagonal base for 
the spire. 

Of the second and third groups, space will not 
permit me to speak at length. Three well-defined 

examples are St. Benet’s, Paul’s Wharf, which I 

have already mentioned, St. Peter’s, Cornhill, and 
St. Magnus’, London Bridge, in all of which one 



seems to see some trace of tlie influence of the 
Jacobean lantern. Of the third type, that obtained 
by the grouping of purely classical features, the best 
marked examples are Christ Church, Newgate Street; 
St. Michael’s, College Hill; and, last and most ela¬ 
borate, St. Bride’s, Fleet Street. 

It has been my object in the above analysis to 
determine the amount of Wren’s indebtedness to 
anterior work, and to try and resolve the extent to 
which he drew on each of the three precedents at his 
command. The breadth and fecundity of his original 
invention may in some sort be inferred from the 
vast number of designs which fail to fall into any 
of my categories. Such examples as St. Michael 
Bassishaw ; St. Mary’s, Abchurch; St. Martin’s, 
Ludgate; St. Nicholas’, Cole Abbey; and lastly— 
his finest achievement in this field—St. Mary-le- 
Bow, may owe something to previous schools, but 
are as genuinely original inventions, and are as inde¬ 
pendent of precedent, as architecture has ever pro¬ 

It is hopeless to attempt to review Wren’s work 
in the limits of a short paper, and my readers must 

be content that I should have confined my considera¬ 
tion to his towers—by no means the least suggestive 
section of his achievements. We have seen, hy a 
fragmentary review of bis work, how, in this field, 
he succeeded in forming out of the sparse material 
afforded by previous styles a new, original, and 
homogeneous, though boldly varied, group of towers. 
It would be as easy to show that upon an equally 
slight basis of earlier work, with the aid of unex¬ 
ampled opportunities, he built up a complete, con¬ 
sistent, and national architecture, the influence of 
which is abundantly apparent at the present mo¬ 
ment. Of his personal life we must still remain 
in almost complete ignorance ; the written record is 
]ejune and totally inadequate, and we must be con¬ 
tent that it shall always be so. But the history of 
his art, in which his life must needs have been mainly 
absorbed, remains with us, written in most striking 
characters; and—if greed of gain and indifference 
to art on the one hand, and a narrow formalism and 
inelasticity of religious practice on the other, shall 
permit it—may still remain a delight and an example 
to future ages. Basil Champneys. 


has done a service to 
English readers in 
introducing to them 
the new and hand¬ 
some volume on 
“ Raphael: his Life, 
Works, and Times,” 
by M. Eugene 
Muntz. The book 
cannot indeed be 
said, either in its 
French or in its 
English form, to 
sqpply a conclusive or perfectly adequate treatment 
of its theme. It leaves the final picture still to 
be drawn, the final estimate still to be presented, of 
the life and work of that happy-starred and radiant 
spirit christened Raphael —“ an angel nature in an 
angel name ”—whose destiny it was to gather into 
one all the separate threads of artistic life and artistic 
effort in Italy, and to weave them into a contex¬ 
ture of beauty more harmonious and more complete 
than the world is ever likely to see again. But 
although the work of M. Muntz has no pretensions 

* “ Kaphael: his Life, Works, and Times.” From the French 
of Eugene Muntz. London : Chapman and Hall. 


to a character of final or classical authority, it is a 
very serviceable as well as a very sumptuous volume 
in its way. It belongs to that increasing class of 
richly illustrated gift-books, in which the text has 
been written, not, as in old-fashioned gift-books was 
too commonly the case, hastily and by the first comer, 
but with diligent study and labour by an accomplished 
and distinguished writer. M. Muntz is well known 
as a historical critic of art, and holds the office of 
librarian at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts at Paris. With 
one exception, to which we shall presently refer, he 
has availed himself in the present work of the re¬ 
searches of all the chief previous and contemporary 
inquirers. And he has presented the result in a con¬ 
nected narrative which, without being particularly 
brilliant, is full, orderly, and judicious. As a matter 
of proportion, M. Muntz gives perhaps almost too 
much space to the discussion of the social and intel¬ 
lectual surroundings in the midst of which Raphael 
at the various stages of his life found himself placed. 
His accounts of Urbino under the good Duke Frederick, 
of Perugia under the riotous leadership of the Bag- 
lioni, of the various artistic influences which Raphael 
found at work in Florence, and of life and culture 
at Rome during the papacies of Julius and of Leo 
respectively ; all these could hardly have been written 
more justly, but they might have been written with 




(Uffizzi Gallery.) 

more point and conciseness. In dealing with the 
productions of Raphael’s art, on the other hand, M. 
Muntz never allows himself to fall, as does another 
distinguished Raphael critic in France, M. F. A. 
Gruyer, into the fault of a too rhapsodical prolixity. 
He gives the required information as to the origin, 
the subject, and the external fortunes and history of 
any picture plainly and to the purpose; putting the 
reader in the right way to make his analysis of its 
deeper meanings and its subtler qualities for himself, 
rather than choosing to make them for him. On the 
whole, the work of M. Muntz will enable the student 
to form a juster and a fuller general conception of the 
genius and work of Raphael than any single volume 
which yet exists, except perhaps that of Professor 
Anton Springer, of Leipzig, who has lately told the 
story of his life and of Michelangelo’s together. 

Of these two potent spirits, Michelangelo and 
Raphael, whose work represents the ultimate attain¬ 
ment and consummated power of art in Central Italy, 
Michelangelo is the masculine spirit, the spirit of 
strength, self-sufficiency, concentration, of indignant 
energy and defiance; Raphael is the feminine spirit, 
the spirit of sweetness, openness, and adaptiveness, 

of sunny ardour and all- 
conciliating grace. Born 
with one special and para¬ 
mount artistic interest of 
his own, the instinct for 
suave and rhythmical com¬ 
binations of linear form, 
Raphael possessed in addi¬ 
tion an unrivalled gift of 
assimilation. He caught 
and made his own the best 
powers and properties of 
every teacher and of every 
school wherewith he came 
in contact. And the ac¬ 
quisitions made with this 
magical facility Raphael 
retained, not as an incon¬ 
gruous bundle of acqui¬ 
sitions. He was no mere 
gifted eclectic; the fire of 
his own spirit was strong 
enough to fuse them into 
one. His native instinct of 
grace, of linear perfection, 
purity, and balance, imposed 
its own laws upon all his 
acquired powers and proper¬ 
ties besides. This essential 
quality of his art remains 
the same whether he is re¬ 
peating, in his earliest days, 
the lessons of his Umbrian masters, Timoteo Viti and 
Pietro Perugino ; or whether, on his first plunge into 
the currents of artistic life at Florence, he makes his own 
all the science of Lionardo and all Fra Bartolommeo’s 
dignity of sentiment and amplitude of ordonnance; 
or whether, finally, he absorbs from his rival Michel¬ 
angelo, at Rome, a great part of his gifts of stormy 
majesty and superhuman force. At tlie same time the 
more impalpable, spiritual qualities of Raphael’s art 
fail to remain equally constant. This is not the place 
to inquire how or why the old charm and inwardness 
of feeling, the poetic favour which he had inhaled 
with the air of his Umbrian mountains, deserted him 
in the course of his career, and how it was only for a 
little while, until the completion of the first two or three 
of his great frescoes in the Vatican, that science and 
inspiration both remained at their height and equally 
balanced in his work. After this the science remained 
or increased with him; the controlling instinct of 
grace continued inalienable, but it was a grace hence¬ 
forth often external and mechanical, and the inspira¬ 
tion, except for occasional and memorable returns, as 
in the Sistine Madonna, had departed. 

The work of Raphael’s Umbrian period, and the 



manner in which its character gradually changes 
during the first part of his Florentine period; the 
work of his Florentine period properly so-called, 
culminating in the great “Entombment” of the Bor- 
ghese Palace; and the work of his Roman period; 
these naturally form the three main historical divi¬ 
sions of his career as treated by M. Muntz. The 
Roman period, comprising the last ten years of his 
life, occupy by themselves nearly two-thirds of the 
book ; as indeed is natural, considering the many-sided 
interest of the social world in which Raphael was in 
those days the most radiant figure, and the multifa¬ 
rious nature of his own occupations and achievements 
in its midst. Hardly Alexander or Napoleon ever 
put forth for the evil of mankind such devouring and 
unimaginable activity of body and spirit as Raphael 
during those brief years put. forth for its delight. 

On the whole, this Roman division of M. Muntz's 
book is the best done. In 
his account of the early 
life of the master, our 
author has profited by the 
researches and arguments 
of Dr. Springer; but not 
—it may be presumed that 
he wrote too soon to profit 
by—those of Signor Morelli. 

Writing in German, under 
the pseudonym of “ Ivan 
Lermolieff,'' Signor Morelli 
has put forward some wholly 
new opinions upon the life 
and work of Raphael which 
have roused the warmest 
admiration, and in some 
instances the warmest an¬ 
tagonism, among students 
and historians of art. 

Dr. Springer had shown 
conclusively that Raphael 
cannot have entered the 
studio of Perugino at the 
age of thirteen, as usually 
supposed, but that he must 
have entered it in 1500, as 
a trained assistant rather 
than as an apprentice. With 
reference to the question 
from whom he had received 
his earlier lessons. Signor 
Morelli has shown reason 
for believing that the boy's 
teacher, after the death of 
his father, must have been 
his townsman Timoteo Viti, study eor the picture or “ st. george and the dragon” at st. Petersburg. 

then lately returned from (Vffl~.zi Gallery.) 

the studio of Francia at Bologna. Signor Morelli 
has further conclusively, to my mind, disposed of 
the account, reiterated by all authorities since Vasari, 
according to which this same Timoteo Viti, Raphael's 
lifelong friend, but his senior by many years, stood 
afterwards to him in the relation of a pupil, and 
came and helped him with some of his frescoes at 
Rome. Another matter on which the same saga¬ 
cious and authoritative Italian critic seems to me 
to have proved his point is as to the origin of the 
famous album of drawings acquired for the Aca¬ 
demy at Venice from the painter Bossi. These 
have been unhesitatingly attributed to Raphael; 
Signor Morelli shows that most of them are in 
reality by Pinturicchio, including one at least which 
M. Muntz reproduces amongst his illustrations as a 
typical example of Raphael's early manner. 

In the attribution and identification of works of 



art, it cannot indeed be said that M. Muntz writes 
with quite first-rate knowledge or authority. Thus 
he accepts as a genuine Raphael Mr. Morris Moore's 
very beautiful, but very problematical, little “Apollo 
and Marsyas." Thus, ag’ain, he dismisses the to 
my mind almost certain, and at any rate most in¬ 
teresting, portrait known as the “ Donna Velata," 
or “ Veiled Lady," at the Pitti; a work which the 
best recent Raphael authorities have been agreed in 
recognising as an original study from the same sitter 
who was afterwards glorified by the painter into the 
“Madonna di San Sisto." In this M. Muntz follows 
the opinion of M. F. A. Gruyer, and that hastily 
expressed, but I believe no longer held, by the dis¬ 
tinguished editor of the last edition of Burckhardt's 

(JPitti Palace , and Madrid.) 

“Cicerone." Once more, M. Muntz speaks, without 
any grounds except those of an idle tradition, as 
though the well-known engraving in which Marc- 
antonio has represented a man in a cloak seated on 
a step, were unquestionably a portrait of Raphael, 
and probably a portrait of him as he sat shivering 
in the fever which carried him off. 

By the courtesy of the English publishers, we are 
enabled to reproduce a few of the illustrations with 
which M. Muntz has adorned his volume. These 
are very numerous, and vary considerably in merit. 
A few are of first-rate excellence; I speak especially 
of woodcuts like that from Perugino's portrait of him¬ 
self, and that from Raphael's so-called “Fornarina" 
at the Barberini Palace, or those from the emble¬ 
matical grisailles at the 
Vatican. The choice made 
of original drawings for 
reproduction is copious 
and with a few exceptions 
judicious. But being re¬ 
produced by a mechanical 
process, and printed with 
the letterpress, the draw¬ 
ing in many cases seems 
thick and clogged, and 
receives a less really exact 
representation than in the 
woodcut copies employed 
in Professor Springer's 
work. The process reduc¬ 
tions of line engravings 
are, as inevitably happens, 
in some degree marred 
either by spottiness of 
line or unpleasantness of 
texture, but are never¬ 
theless valuable as setting 
before the reader's eye the 
compositions described in 
the text. The same may 
be said of the outline cuts, 
which in themselves have 
little charm or merit. To 
pass to the quality of the 
translation in the English 
edition—it is, as usual in 
such cases, fairly credit¬ 
able, but capable of much 
improvement. That is to 
say, the style is inoffen¬ 
sive but somewhat wooden, 
and the rendering accu¬ 
rate on the whole, but not 
seldom wrong in techni¬ 
calities ; as where, to give 




one instance out of a 
number, a drawing “b 
la pierre d’ltalie” is 
called a drawing “ on 
Italian stone.” 

The examples accom¬ 
panying our text will 
serve to give a fair idea 
of the style and the 
variety of the illustra¬ 
tions which adorn M. 

Muntz’s pages. First 
come two direct repro¬ 
ductions of drawings 
from Raphael’s early 
time; the originals are 
in the Uffizzi Gallery 
at Florence. Both are 
preliminary studies for 
pictures, and both illus¬ 
trate the same subject 
—the fight of St. George 
and the Dragon. The 
picture completed after 
the former of these 
studies was the work of 
Raphael in his twenty- 
first year (1504); it was 
painted for Duke Guido- 
baldo of Urbino, and is 
now in Paris, where it 
forms one of the fami¬ 
liar jewels of the Salon 
Carre at the Louvre. 

From the weapon with 
which the hero is about 
to deal the finishing 
blow at his enemy, it 
is known as the “ St. 

George with the Sword,” 
while the picture painted from our second study is for 
the same reason celebrated as the “St. George with 
the Lance.” This second work was painted two years 
after the other, in 1506, on the commission of the 
same patron, Duke Guidobaldo, who sent it in that 
year as a present to King Henry VII. of England, 
in acknowledgment of the honour the king had 
done him in making him a Knight of the Garter. 
It is in allusion to this that the St. George in the 
picture wears upon his leg a garter inscribed with 
the word “Honi” In course of time the painting 
unfortunately found its way from England to Russia, 
and is now in the Gallery of the Hermitage. 

Of the two designs as here given, the second is 
somewhat the more finished, containing, in addition 
to the main subject; the sketch of a landscape back- 

ground, in the spirit of Raphael’s friend and helper, 
Timoteo Viti, and the figure of the princess who 
kneels praying as she awaits the issue. In the earlier 
design the saint strikes a back-hand blow with his 
sword from the left; in the later he thrusts with a 
lance from the right; the composition in this case 
showing, as M. Muntz justly observes, the influence 
of Donatello’s bas-relief at Or San Michele in 
Florence, which Raphael had seen and studied in 
the interval. For the rest, the spirit of both designs 
is the same. There breathes from them both that 
innocency of the imagination which was a charac¬ 
teristic of the Umbrian religious schools, and that 
instinct of linear grace on which we have insisted 
as Raphael’s own paramount gift. The sense of 
life and reality is lost in the sense of rhythm and 



charm. It is not merely that the rearing horse is 
in either case somewhat childishly stiff in action; 
Lionardo da Yinci was the only artist who by this 
time had mastered and learnt thoroughly to express 
the movement of a horse in action; it is that all 
the auxiliary as well as all the leading lines—those 
of the knight's cloak and of his charger's tail and 
of the dragon's folds and all—combine themselves, 
especially in the earlier picture, into a scheme so full 
of suavity that the fight seems to be conducted to no 
warlike but rather to a dancing measure. 

Perhaps the central instance in Raphael's work of 
this subordination of reality to charm, the suppres¬ 
sion of all turbulences and dissonances under an 
inviolable rule of grace, is furnished by the picture 
which occupied so much of his time and labour 
towards the close of his period of residence at 
Florence ; I mean the famous “ Entombment " now 
in the Borghese Palace at Rome. This picture was 

ordered as a “ Pieta," or subject of Mary mourning 
over her son, by Atalanta Baglioni, of the beautiful 
and ferocious race of the Baglioni of Perugia, her¬ 
self a stricken mother, the story of whose life is one 
of the wildest of that or of any other age. It has 
been admirably told by Mr. J. A. Symonds in his 
“ Sketches in Italy and Greece." Raphael's first 
intention was to paint the scene of mourning im¬ 
mediately following the deposition from the Cross, 
and to model his treatment on that adopted by 
his master Perugino in the well-known picture of 
the same theme now at the Pitti. Afterwards he 
abandoned this purpose, and chose for representation 
the later moment when the body of Christ has been 
raised by the disciples, and, surrounded by the weep¬ 
ing Maries, is carried towards the tomb; founding 
his desigrn partly, it would seem, on that of Andrea 
Mantegna's impressive engraving of the.same subject. 
The picture as at last completed is full of admirable 

accomplishment; the figure 
of the disciple sustaining the 
legs of the corpse is one of 
heroic beauty and prowess ; 
that of the Magdelene press¬ 
ing forward, and raising the 
left hand of Christ in hers, 
one of faultless grace and 
distinction; and the group 
of women about the fainting 
Virgin on the right has 
scarcely less beauty. But 
in this pursuit of beauty 
and distinction, the impres¬ 
sion, not of reality only, but 
of sincerity, is almost lost; 
it is all too stately, too rhyth¬ 
mical and fairly ordered. 

as the climax of 
praise, exclaims/ 1 How grace¬ 
ful are these women in their 
tears!" (tanto graziose nel 
pianlo) ; and there is the 
point exactly. As we look 
at the work, our sense of 
tears is extinguished in our 
senseof grace. Itwasthrough 
a long- series of trials and 
experiments that Raphael 
arrived at the somewhat too 
cold and balanced beauty of 
this result. The record of 
those trials and experiments 
is preserved in a number 
of successive sketches and 
studies, preserved in the col¬ 
lections of Paris, Florence, 



Oxford, in that of Mr. Malcolm, and elsewhere. 
Several of these are of extraordinary beauty. Their 
true relations to one another, and to the Borghese 
picture, were first pointed out by Mr. J. C. Robinson. 
M. Muntz has judiciously chosen five of the most 
important drawings of the series for reproduction 
in his work. I have preferred not to give any of 
them here, inasmuch as they cannot be perfectly ap¬ 
preciated apart and out of their proper sequence. 

Our other illustrations include the fac-simile of 
a drawing for one of the Holy Families known as 
the “Madonna di Casa Canigiani.” The original, 
in a somewhat injured state, is at Munich; and of 
the several known copies, one of the best is in the 
Corsini Palace at Florence. Before the drawing we 
have placed a sketch of the finished picture. The 
skill with which the movements are varied, and the 
play of line and limb made harmonious and rich, 
within the limits of this strictly pyramidal and 

symmetrical composition, are extremely characteristic 
of the master. The preliminary drawing (in which 
the upper figure, that of Joseph leaning on his 
staff, has been put in on a different scale, and no 
doubt at a different time, from the lower figures) 
makes it plain how Raphael had by this time 
acquired, under Florentine example, the habit of 
conceiving his compositions in the first instance in 
the nude, and making studies for them from un¬ 
draped models. For an illustration of Raphael’s 
Roman work, we have reproduced, after M. Muntz, 
a woodcut after his masterly, incisive portrait of 
his friend and patron Bernardo Dovizio da Bibbiena, 
diplomatist, scholar, author, and cardinal, the most 
astute and adroit of the courtiers of the Papacy, until 
his worldly wisdom at last overreached itself. Of the 
two fine examples of this portrait known, that at the 
Pitti is now supposed to be a copy, and that at 
Madrid to be the true original. Sidney Colvin. 


T HIS excellent institution has now reached the 
tenth year of its existence, having been founded 
in 1872 under the presidency of H.R.H. the Princess 
Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, and an influential 
committee of ladies, for “ the twofold purpose of 
supplying suitable employment for gentlewomen, and 
restoring ornamental needlework to the high place it 
once held among the decorative arts.” To accom¬ 
plish this latter purpose would, in truth, involve a 
return which we are not likely to witness to bygone 
habits and manners. Still, a certain amount of demand 
for large work is apparent, and fine designs for it are 
supplied by Mr. Burne-Jones, Mr. Morris, Mr. Walter 
Crane, and others. One of these, a portiere for a 
music-room, designed by Mr. Burne-Jones, is a group 
of female figures embroidered simply in outline with 
brown crewel on linen. It has been copied several 
times, and will doubtless continue to be a favourite, 
although it is not so showy as those that, are worked 
in colours. A large decorative scheme by Mr. Walter 
Crane, for the top and sides of a doorway, is very 
fine in many ways, but the figures are unsatisfactory. 
They are not worked in outline, but filled in with 
fine embroidery in silk; and the effect, especially in 
the faces, is coarse and unpleasant. The drawing of 
the human figure, both in this particular instance 
and generally in the designs of the school, leaves 
much to be desired. And even in eases where it is 
faultless, it is a question still, in spite of the example 
of ancient tapestries, whether figure subjects are suit¬ 
able for finished needlework. It is almost impossible 

to prevent the faces from appearing distorted, the 
eyes from being blank and staring, and the nude parts 
of the figure from looking raw and coarse. This is 
especially the case when the figures are on a small 
scale. It should never be forgotten by designers for 
needlework that the art, however beautiful, is a 
limited one, and that it is useless to try and make 
it co-extensive with painting. It is a relief to turn 
from the uncomfortable Greek goddesses intermingled 
with the beautiful floral and linear elements of Mr. 
Crane’s design, to such a piece of pure abstract deco¬ 
ration as Mr. Morris’s wall-hanging. This, though 
rather more conventionalised, is somewhat similar in 
pattern to many of Mr. Morris’s wall-papers and 
chintzes. It is worked in quiet tones, and forms 
a perfect example of this particular kind of decora¬ 
tive work. There are, however, many more sump¬ 
tuous specimens of this larger type hung round the 
walls of the show-rooms. Curtains of creamy white 
satin inwrought with delicate wild roses, the colour 
of pink shells; curtains of gold and silver and many- 
coloured silks on yellow satin, or dark green or blue 
velvet; curtains, and these not the least effective, 
worked with crewels in simple outline on serge or 
linen. Among the table-covers is one made of 
brilliant red plush, with a sun in the centre richly 
embroidered in raised gold amidst a radiance of 
gold rays, and with the same design, reduced, in 
each of the four corners. Many of the folding 
screens, too, are vast and beautiful enough to be 
classed with the larger designs. 



The demand, however, is chiefly for minor fancy 
articles, of which there are always a great number 
and variety on view. With many articles of dress, 
there are screens, table-covers, chair-backs, cushions, 
couvre-pieds, tidies, fans, sachets for gloves and 
handkerchiefs, hand-bags, purses, blotters, and en¬ 
velope-boxes, menu and photograph cases, cigar, letter, 
and paper cases, postcard and telegraph form cases— 
cases, in short, for everything that the heart of man 
or woman can desire : not to speak of a few objects 
which can hardly be considered suitable for decoration 
in needlework, such as pairs of bellows and medicine 
cabinets. Many of these smaller knicknacks are 
made for Christmas presents. A couvre-pied designed 
by Mr. Fairfax Wade, and worked in thick filoselle 
of several shades of madder-red on a dark-red plush 
ground, is extremely beautiful and new in character; 
the same design in shades of blue seemed not quite 
so effective. A novel impression was produced by 
a blotter and envelope-box worked with a fanciful 
design of gold leaves and silver spider-webs on a 
green satin ground. A glove and handkerchief sachet 
worked in a dainty pattern of white and gold on dark 
brown velvet was particularly attractive. Still, those 
who visit the school year after year grow weary 
and depressed over the monotony of the designs. 
Honeysuckles and roses, lilies and irises, sunflowers 
and daffodils are assuredly a goodly sight in them¬ 
selves ; but is it not just possible to get too much 
of their portraits worked no matter how faithfully 
on tissues however exquisite ? We shall, no doubt, 
be told that there is a greater demand for floral 
designs than for any others; but a School of Art- 
Needlework professing high aims should do its utmost 
to educate and enlarge the public taste by a con¬ 
stant supply of new and effective patterns. A very 
slight acquaintance with Oriental needlework will 
prove how narrow and comparatively poor are our 
ideas of decorative design. These must be enriched 
and enlarged; and however expensive the best and 
rarest patterns may be, it is the duty of the school 
to provide them. 

The first purpose of the founders—that of pro¬ 
viding suitable employment for gentlewomen—has 
been accomplished to a very great extent. A hundred 
and twenty ladies on the average are constantly em¬ 
ployed in the school; some in embroidering, some 
in designing patterns, some in drawing the patterns 
on material, and thus preparing work for amateurs; 
others in making up the finished work for sale at 
the school, others in selling the work and materials 
in the show-rooms, others as clerks, book-keepers, and 
so forth. The regular course of instruction in the 
school—which costs the learner £5—consists of but 
nine lessons of five hours each. At the end of this 
course the learner is considered a “ qualified worker 

of the school,” and may, under the direction of the 
lady manager, take her place in the large and well- 
lighted work-rooms at the back of the show-room, 
where the workers are expected to sit at their frames 
for about seven hours a day. No applicant is admitted 
to the course of instruction until there is a vacancy. 
It is a principle of the school to provide constant 
and regular employment for its staff of qualified 
workers, very often even during holiday times, 
when they are given work to do at home. This 
constitutes one of its chief responsibilities and ex¬ 
penses. Everything is paid by the piece, so that 
earnings depend very much on individual industry. 
Much personal interest, we are told, is taken by 
members of the committee in the welfare of the 
workers. Besides several comfortable and airy work¬ 
rooms, there is a kitchen and refreshment-room, and 
a small room where any overtired worker may rest 
in a comfortable chair, and refresh herself with a 
book from the library or a cup of tea from the 
kitchen. The offices filled by ladies in the school 
who are not embroiderers are paid weekly, and 
the salaries are continued throughout the vacation. 
Classes, too, are held in the school for lady amateurs 
who wish to learn the art. 

It has been said sometimes that the prices of the 
finished needlework as well as the materials on sale at 
the South Kensington School are higher than else¬ 
where. But it must be remembered that the enter¬ 
prise is not merely commercial. It is also avowedly, 
if not primarily, one of social beneficence. The prices 
are, in fact, carefully fixed on the lowest scale which 
experience shows to be compatible with the mainten¬ 
ance of the institution. Admitting that the school can 
be undersold by other and private establishments con¬ 
ducted for a purely commercial purpose, its prosperity 
must depend on two things : on the amount of sym¬ 
pathy with its special aims which can be awakened 
among the purchasing classes; and on its securing 
and maintaining a pre-eminent position for excellence 
and originality of design, and for soundness as well as 
beauty of material. To a very great extent the school 
has achieved this already, and it is to be hoped that 
it will do so more and more. The general public 
who take up needlework merely because they think 
it is the fashion, and who insist upon having the same 
patterns of bulrushes and kingfishers, of startling 
sunflowers and staring ox-eye daisies, over and over 
again, will not perhaps care to pay more for them 
at the school than they do at ordinary shops. But if 
the school will supply a variety of thoroughly good 
decorative designs in its finished, as well as for its 
prepared, work, it cannot fail of securing a growing 
custom among those who are interested in the higher 
development of the art of needlework, and of in¬ 
creasing the number of such persons year by year. 

(j From, the Photograph by Prcetorius ; by Permission of the Publisher, M. Gueraut.) 



OHN CROME, called “Old Crome,” to dis¬ 
tinguish him from his painter-sons, was born 
in 1760, of humble parents (weavers), in a poor 
tavern at Norwich. He began his art-career when 
a mere child, and after the scantiest education as 


studies, and helped no doubt to develop and elevate 
the admirable sense of accuracy which is a primary 
quality of his genius. 

When his apprenticeship was ended, he painted 
signs for a living. He shared a lodging with 


(From the Picture in the Possession of W. R. Fisher , Esq.) 

an apprentice to a coach and sign painter. In this 
way he got hold of pencils and colours; for in those 
days coach-painting was an artistic occupation, the 
panels of carriages being often elaborately decorated 
with fanciful designs. He was active-minded and 
determined. In spare moments he would draw from 
prints or anything he could get at; he would even 
attempt to copy nature. A camera-obscura, which 
was lent to him, gave him a mechanical aid in his 

another embryo artist, Ladbroke, and the two 
boys worked hard together. Two signs by Crome 
are still remembered : “ The Two Brewers/'’ painted 
in 1790, and carefully preserved at a brewery in 
Norwich; and “ The Guardian Angel,” which long 
hung high in front of a public-house at South- 
town, near Yarmouth. It is said that he was some¬ 
times so poor that he was compelled to paint sugar 
ornaments for confectioners, to clip his cat’s tail to 


make kis brushes, and to use pieces of bed-tick and 
old aprons instead of canvas. As withal he married 
early in life a beautiful girl of as humble origin as 
himself, his poverty must at times have been very 
great and very hard to bear; but nothing seems to 
have daunted him. He worked on, painting the 
simple scenes around him, seeing pictures in them 
all, and rendering their every detail faithfully and 
lovingly. Scenes lightly held by casual observers 
became painted poems in his hands, lie sold them 
for whatever he could get, and by hard work and 
a little luck he contrived to save a bit of money. 
Then he turned his face to London. There, however, 
he found the battle for life still harder. Competitors 
were so numerous, and the demand for landscape was 
so small, that he was driven to seek subsistence for 
a time by sign and even house painting. Presently 
help and couusel came to him from Sir William 
Beechey, the portrait-painter, who sometimes visited 
Norwich. Sir William saw talent in the country 
lad with the shrewd clever face and the heavy hair 
and eyebrows, and gave him many valuable hints 
as to the proper distribution of natural light and 
shade, allowed him to visit his studio, and taught 
him how to prepare colours and set his palette. 
From the portrait-painter Crome learned confidence 
and dexterity, and began to paint with greater force 
and better effect. But he left London no richer than 
when he came, and he returned to Norwich to find times 
harder than ever. He was obliged to resume his old 
trade of coach and sign painting, and was often 
without a'shilling; till some one, a judicious friend, 
advised him to give lessons in drawing. This advice 
he followed, and the upshot was that he became 
a drawing-master for the rest of his life. In this 
way, much more than by his higher art, he became 
acquainted with many rich and cultivated families 
in Norfolk, and was enabled to support himself, to 
bring up his large family, to have a small studio 
of his own, and to carry on his studies from nature 
and his work as an artist. One of his kindest 
friends was Mr. Harvey, of Catton, who, possessing 
some Flemish and Dutch pictures, gave him his 
only opportunity in early life of seeing the pro¬ 
ductions of the Old Masters. He carefully studied 
and enthusiastically admired them, and always loved 
to fancy that he imitated Hobbema. A similarity 
certainly exists between his works and those of the 
great Dutchman; but genius is never merely imi¬ 
tative. He was such a worshipper of Hobbema 
that (it is said) the master’s name was the last that 
fell from his dying lips, and it is not to be doubted 
that Hobbema was a chief infiuence in his life. 
Their careers, too, were somewhat similar ; the scenes 
amongst which they lived and worked and died were 
remarkably alike ; both were earnest lovers of nature. 

portraying truthfully all they saw around them ; 
they have many qualities in common. But the 
characters of their several achievements are distinct 
and different. 

As time went on, and Crome became known as 
a teacher of art, it was found that his instruction and 
example were veritable influences, and that he had 
gathered round him a little school of painters. It 
was then that he planned and formed the “ Society 
of Norwich Artists,” whose yearly exhibitions, of 
pictures by Norfolk men alone, revealed the exist¬ 
ence of a group of artists entirely independent of, 
and indifferent to, the metropolis. It is now ac¬ 
knowledged to have been the first and only provincial 
society of the kind ever formed in England. Its 
first exhibition, to which Crome contributed twenty- 
four works, was opened in 1803, and its last, 
some thirty years after. It was called “ The Lovers 
of the Arts, a society instituted for the purpose 
of an inquiry into the rise, progress, and present 
state of .painting, architecture, and sculpture.” 
Its members were to meet once a fortnight to 
discuss aesthetic subjects. One of the large quarto 
catalogues is blazoned as that of “ The Twelfth 
Exhibition (held in 1816) of the Norwich Society 
of Artists, consisting of paintings and drawings, now 
open at their great room in Sir Benjamin Wrenche’s 
Court.” Underneath is the quotation :— 

“ Examine first where Truth and Taste decree 
What Nature is, what Painting ought to be.” 

Martin Archer Shee, P A. 

And below that:— 

“ Nutrix artis mmulatio est.” 

Velleius Paterculus. 

At this exhibition were shown 269 works, and in 
the list of exhibitors the originator of the society 
is entered as “ Crome, Mr. J., drawing master, 
St. George’s, Colegate, Norwich.” The number of 
his pictures on view was nineteen, his eldest son, 
John Berney Crome, contributing thirteen, and his 
daughter two. Vincent, Stark, Cotman, Stannard, 
are a few of the names that have become known 
in connection with the Norwich School. In the 
winter of 1877-78 a special collection of their work 
was shown at Burlington House, and the general 
public then first learned what admirable stuff the 
“ Lovers of the Arts ” had produced. 

Crome exhibited from time to time at the 
Royal Academy, but his pictures attracted no par¬ 
ticular attention. John Berney, the eldest of his 
four sous, achieved some reputation as an artist, 
and was appointed “ Landscape-Painter” to H.R.H. 
the Duke of Sussex. He painted river scenes and 
moonlight effects, some of which are good; and, 
like his father, he gave lessons. A good-hearted, 
happy-go-lucky fellow, twice married, but leaving no 



children, he died in 1842, after some years of physical 
sufferingr. Old Crome had also two daughters. One 
married; the other, Emily, painted flowers and still- 
life beautifully, and was a constant exhibitor at the 
Norwich Society of Artists till her death. 

Crome rarely travelled abroad, but about the year 
1815 he accompanied some of the Norfolk Gurneys 
(amongst his kindest patrons) to France, and made 
many careful sketches during the tour which he used 
afterwards at home; but his favourite subjects were 
always the heaths and commons and sand-pits of 
his native place. As a teacher of drawing, he had 
to be in constant movement; and during his long 
lonely drives in his open gig through the winding 
narrow lanes at all seasons and hours, he accumu¬ 
lated vast stores of observations : of varied lights and 
shadows, of atmospherical mysteries and changes, 
the shapes of clouds, transient effects, the peculiari¬ 
ties of trees and grass and leafage; to be recalled 
and rendered in the quiet of his studio. He was 
a very careful and painstaking teacher, and often 
could not understand why his pupils were unable 
to paint and draw as well as himself. He would 
take up their tools and impatiently work on their 
paper or canvases; and, consequently, the produc¬ 
tions of his pupils often show unmistakable signs of 
the master's hand. He was particular about his 
pencils, liking large soft leads, which he had specially 
made up in cedar for himself, with his own name 
marked on each. His pupils often used them, hoping 
thereby to catch his peculiar touch in pencil work. 

He was sociably inclined, cheery and hearty in 
manner, enthusiastic about his art, cultivated in 
tastes, extremely witty and fond of a joke ; and he 
was always a welcome guest at the wealthy houses 
where he taught. About once a week he drove over 
from Norwich to Yarmouth, a distance of some 
twenty miles, and often slept at a big house on the 
picturesque quay of that very picturesque old town, 
its windows looking on the broad Yare covered 
with busy shipping, and on the avenue of trees 
lining the banks of the river. The owner of that 
house, the grandfather of the present writer, 
was one of Crome’s warmest admirers and most 
generous patrons; his wife and young daughter 
were among Crome’s favourite pupils. The house 
was crowded with beautiful things; it had a fine 
library; the walls were covered with prints and 
pictures. Many of the latter were Crome’s; but they 
did not excite much admiration among the many 
visitors to the house. They preferred the little 
canvases by Sharp, Morland, and Ward, which 
would now be thought hardly worth looking at. 
A spare room was always ready for Crome; and, 
according to the fashion of the time, its bed was 
very high, and he used laughingly to say he had 

to take a flying leap into it from the fireplace. 
His day’s work over, he became the genial, merry 
companion of leisure hours, fond of making fun 
and playing tricks on the many children about the 
place. The little boys, back from school, would 
gather round and listen eagerly to the tales he had 
to tell of his early struggles and of his many ad¬ 
ventures, his shrewd, keen face lighted up with fun 
and animation. Still remembered by my father is 
his description of “Old Snap,” the local monster, 
and the rapid sketch with which, as was his wont, 
he enforced his description. Seizing a bit of paper 
and a pencil, he drew the dragon with a man’s legs 
under it, and then, the paper being too short to in¬ 
clude Old Snap’s long tail, he caught hold of another 
scrap of paper, and then another, and pinned them to 
the first so as to get “ room and verge enough ” at 
last. In those days all refined and accomplished 
ladies delighted in filling innumerable albums with 
sketches, extracts, and paintings. Of these albums 
the mistress and daughter of the old house on the 
quay at Yarmouth had many. One was especially the 
favourite—a little fat book only five by four inches 
square ; and “ The Receiver-General ” was the title em¬ 
bossed on its cover. To this Crome was asked to con¬ 
tribute ; after much hesitation he consented, and dashed 
off a little drawing, and, handing it back to his hostess, 
said —“ There, I have done for you the smallest 
drawing I ever did in my life.” This occurred on 
one of the last visits he ever paid. In the April of 
that same year, 1821, his pencil was laid by for ever. 

Of our illustrations one is from a beautiful 
little picture now in the possession of Mr. W. R. 
Fisher, of Harrow, which was purchased from the 
painter by its owner’s grandfather, the Rev. Richard 
Turner, incumbent of Yarmouth. It was shown 
at the “ Old Masters” a few years ago. Crome 
taught this gentleman’s daughters, and one day, 
while giving them a lesson, made a rapid clever pencil 
sketch of their grandmother, Mrs. Anne Turner, as 
the venerable old lady sat reading in her tall arm¬ 
chair. It was a capital portrait, and has always been 
greatly valued by the sitter’s descendants. Another 
illustration is from one of the artist’s finest pictures, 
the “ Grove Scene, Marlingford.” My grandfather, 
at the height of his prosperity, about 1815, gave 
Crome a commission to paint him a large picture, and 
in due time the artist brought over two canvases 
to Yarmouth. The mistress of the house was re¬ 
covering from a long illness, and the pictures were 
taken to her bedside. “ We must have that one,” 
she said, pointing to the “ Grove Scene.” Her 
husband told her that Mr. Crome asked only thirty 
guineas for it; but she said that it was worth 
more, and that he must have forty for it. It was 
hung in a place of honour, and became a great 




(From a Pencil Sketch in the Possession of Sir James Paget , Bart) 

favourite with the whole family, hy whom it was 
always called “ the green pictureperhaps to dis¬ 
tinguish it from a very dark autumnal landscape 
hy Crome that hung near it ; perhaps because of 
the sapling oak. with its spring foliage, which forms 
the principal object in its composition. Many years 
after, the fortunes of the house had changed. With 
an aching heart the owner made up his mind to 
part with his beloved Cromes. He asked his son, 
now Sir James Paget, then just past his pupilage at 
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, to propose to Messrs. 
Christie and Manson that the pictures should he 
sent for sale to their auction rooms. He did so, and 
the member of the firm to whom he spoke inquired 
how much his father thought the pictures ought to 
realise. The son said he believed one of them, the 
“ Grove Scene, Marlingford,” to be worth a hun¬ 
dred guineas, others about fifty, or even less; and 
he was at once assured that there was not a Crome 
in the kingdom that would fetch a hundred pounds. 
He wrote the ill news home, and the pictures were 
not sent to London. The “ Grove Scene” was after¬ 
wards privately sold to Mr. Sherrington, of Yarmouth, 
who collected Old Cromes, and at his death it passed 
into the hands of its present owner, Mr. Louis Huth. 
It was one of the two Old Cromes in the loan col¬ 
lection at the International of 1862, and excited 
great interest and admiration; it was also seen at 
the “ Old Masters ” some years ago, and now is 
worth a small fortune. 

Several interesting drawings and sketches hy Old 
Crome are in the family still. One of these, “ The Old 
Jetty at Yarmouth,” appears among our illustrations; 
fish is being landed on the beach, and in an upper 
corner of the drawing is roughly delineated one of 
the narrow carts peculiar to the town. Another is 
one of Crome’s few water-colours : a large sketch 
of Matlock, done on the spot during one of his 
rare trips, the effect blotted in with broad firm 
touches. A third is an enormous pencil study 
of an old dying oak in Kimberley Park. It shows 
how carefully and closely Crome studied nature, 
and how thoroughly he understood the anatomy of 
trees. The peculiarity observed in dead oaks— 
of the branches becoming curved-—is evidently per¬ 
ceived and noted down; the scant and scattered 
foliage, the gnarled and rugged trunk, the swell¬ 
ing of each branch as it leaves the parent stem, 
are all followed patiently and truthfully. 

Crome also etched a good deal. Considering the 
enormous time taken up in getting from place to 
place for the purposes of teaching, and that from 
1803 to 1821, the year he died, he contributed no 
less than 266 pictures, sketches, and studies to the 
exhibition of the “ Society of Norwich Artists ” (and 
a great many of his works were never shown there), 
his industry must have been extraordinary. 

It is curious to trace the rise in value of his pic¬ 
tures. The “ View of Mousehold Heath ”—a favourite 
sketching-ground of Crome’s, overshadowing, as it 



does, his native city—was bought after the painter’s 
death for £12, and passed from hand to hand till 
it was added to the collection of Mr. Yetts, of Yar¬ 
mouth. It was the second of the two Old Cromes 
at the International of 1802, when art-critics first 
realised how great a master was the man hitherto 
esteemed but as a kind of local celebrity. It was 
bought for the nation at £400, and now hangs in 
the National Gallery. Of its kind it has incom¬ 
parable merit. It shows us a wild flat, crossed by 
a narrow winding path; a great bank of heavy clouds 
is rising behind the edge of the heath; the mounds 
in the foreground are covered with gorse and docks. 
Another representative work in the National Gallery 
is the “View at Chapel Fields, Norwich:” of an 
avenue of trees, and of sleek cattle coming up a 
sunny road streaked with broad shadows from the 
overhanging foliage. A third is the admirable 
“ Landscape with Windmill.-” On the top of a rising 
ground stands the mill, a road winding up to it; 
to the left are sand-pits, with donkeys feeding 
hard by; a tall sign-post stands by the open gate 
below, through which slowly rides the miller, all 
white, on his old white horse, his white sack across 
its back; a clump of trees fills up the right-hand 
side, and overhead is a grey, cool, peaceful sky. 
The effect—of mingled truthfulness and charm 
—is one not easily described nor soon forgotten. 
In March, 1867, at the sale of Mr. J. H. Gurney’s 
collection, a noble Old Crome (a farmhouse) fetched 
210 guineas. Its companion—a woody spot on the 
banks of the Yare, with gipsy encampment-realised 
160 guineas. In the June of that same year, the 
magnificent “ View of Cromer,” at Messrs. Christie 
and Manson’s, was sold for 1,020 guineas. In the 
Gillott collection, 1872, eight Old Cromes were 
sold at prices ranging from 130 guineas to 700 
guineas; while at the sale in 1875 of the Manley 
Hall Gallery, belonging to Mr. Mendel, an upright 
landscape, representing a road scene, with a group of 
trees and a peasant, realised close upon £1,600. 
Like Millet and like Rousseau, whom he antici¬ 
pated in so much, and whose art has so much in 
common with his own, he might, had he been so bold, 
have discounted the future to almost any extent he 

Like them, too, the Norwich master is a prince 
of modern art. His practice and example are among 
the most beneficent that we can show; his place 
is with the greatest of these times. He was an 
admirable draughtsman and—in his own way and 
upon his own ground—an admirable colourist; he 
had a passionate and beautiful regard for nature; 
his sense of fitness and proportion in landscape was, 
in its kind and within its peculiar limits, of unsur¬ 
passed veracity and keenness. From the Dutchmen 

there is no doubt that he learned much. Their tra¬ 
dition was a kind of revelation to him; they helped 
him to strengthen and develop his instinct of tone 
and of value, his theory of composition, his knowledge 
of what may be called scenic anatomy, his faculty 
for perceiving and expressing the ideal latent in the 
homely and simple reality with which, from first to 
last, he fed his mind and enriched his imagination. 
But he brought to his task—of vivifying and en¬ 
larging the conventionality he had taken on from 
these masters—a simplicity of genius, a equality of 
cordial and cheerful poetry, a “ plain heroic magni¬ 
tude ” of mind and temper that were all his own; 
and the advance he made, unaided and alone, was 
very great. It is of no moment now that he lived 
and worked in obscurity, that his influence was in 
a sense provincial and remote, and that his achieve¬ 
ment remained unknown and unhonoured by the 
world for nearly half a century after his death, and 
until the revolution in which he might have been 
a prime mover was fully accomplished. The fact 
remains, not only that he was one of the greatest 
of English painters, but that his work is rich enough 
in primary qualities and elemental forces to have 
distinguished an epoch in the history of art. With 
Constable, he perceived and set in operation the 

(By Permission of Louis Huth, Esq.) 



principles of which modern landscape art—the art, 
that is, of Rousseau and J.-F. Millet as opposed to 
that of Raphael and Titian ; the art which seeks to 
express nature, not by means of an exclusive and 
arbitrary selection of certain heroic aspects, but as an 
organic whole, as a living mass of co-ordinate and 
co-existing elements—is a direct development. And 
this he did with such a singleness of purpose, such 
a loving and intelligent truthfulness, such a line 

imaginative sincerity, as make it not doubtful that, 
had circumstances permitted, his influence might have 
been larger in scope and more vitalising in effect than 
Constable's own. Thei’e is a real and close relation¬ 
ship between masterpieces like the “Cromer” and 
the “ Mousehold Heath” of the Norwich painter, 
and masterpieces like the “ Ferme dans les Landes,” 
the “ Berger an Parc,” the “ Joueur de Flute,” and 
the immortal “ Semeur.” Flise Paget. 


’QUELLS are not 
rSj always agree¬ 
able; and there 
is a good deal to 
be said about a 
bell-note, and the 

\ ( M difference 

Av Mi 

•- between it 

and bell-noise. The “Third Quarter”—drawn long 
ago by Richard Doyle (who seems, by the way, to 
have forgotten that it takes four bells to ring a 
quarter) for Dickens’s famous Christmas book, “ The 
Chimes”—is about as good an illustration of bell- 
noise as we need call for outside Big Ben. A bell- 
note and bell-shape were not arrived at all at once. 
Many old viols and oddly-shaped fiddles preceded the 
perfect Cremona, and many hoarse gongs, kettles, 
and globular cauldrons preceded the perfect bells 
of Hemony and Van den Gehyn. I shall not here 

enter into the subtleties of bell-shape and bell-metal, 
but the proportion of each may be roughly stated. 
The thickness and proportion of the true bell are 
of the utmost importance ; so is the composition of 
its metal. 

Bells vary in thickness from y 2 th to x Vtli of the 
diameter, their height being commonly about twelve 
times the thickness. The Belgian bells are some¬ 
what thinner than the English bells. They are 
stationary, and calculated only to bear the lesser 
but all-sufficient stroke of a hammer, instead of the 
tremendous and pulverising thump of a clapper when 
swung round on a wheel, as in England. Bell-metal 
is composed of from 23 to 30 per cent, of tin, and 
the rest copper. New metal is the best, and the 
quality must be fine, which means expense. Hence 
an English bell-founder, dealing with an ignorant 
public, can usually outbid a Belgian artist, who will 
not stoop to use bad metal; and our British trades¬ 
man will thus produce a cheaper article—quite good 
enough, apparently, for us. 

But now what constitutes a good bell ? not only 
richness but also purity of tone, and in addition to 
this, when there are several, all should be in tune 
with each other. When struck on the sound bow 
the bell should yield one clear note; the third and 
the fifth should also be heard, but subordinate to the 
fundamental. When the bell gives one note loud, 
with its upper, third, and fifth more faintly, it is a 
true bell, fit for a musical suite. Should the third or 
fifth be louder than the fundamental, or should the 
bell yield a seventh, or a ninth, or other intervals, in¬ 
stead of clearly announcing its fundamental third and 
fifth, then it is a bad bell, unfit for a musical suite. 

Severin van Aerschodt, the lineal descendant of 
the Van den Geliyns of the sixteenth and seven¬ 
teenth centuries, prides himself upon casting a bell 
with a major or minor third at will; he also prides 
himself upon tuning a suite or carillon of bells in 
semitones with quite approximate accuracy. Now 
this important accomplishment of tuning bells is 



what the English 
have never attained 
to, for the very 
simple reason that 
the bell art in this 
country has never 
been really a mu¬ 
sical art at all. We 
have had at most 
our twelve big bells 
to think of; and 
we have used them 
chiefly for the ath¬ 
letic and arithme¬ 
tical exercise of 
hell-ringing; and we 
have been content 
with a fair octave. 

But show me any 
tower in England 
with two octaves of 
English - cast bells 
in tune. The thing 
does not exist; but 
two and three oc¬ 
taves with their 
semitones are com¬ 
mon enough in Bel¬ 
gium; because there, 
for centuries, the 
bell has been treated as a musical note, and the art 
of easting bells in large suites of from forty to sixty, 
and tuning them in octaves, has naturally enough 
been practised. 

In a Belgian suite of forty bells, big and little, 
there will be one or two defective, no doubt; but we 
pass in forty what we condemn in fourteen. Now note 
where lies the difficulty : the English suite usually 
begins to err about the seventh bell, for the diffi¬ 
culty of casting the upper notes right with the lower 
is very great; and the old masters, like the Braziers 
and Brends of Norwich, Myles Gray of Bury, and 
Rudhall of Gloucester—all contemporaries with the 
great Belgians, and much more lies with them than 
we are—were better than any English founders now 
at work, for they made very good bells more or less 
under Dutch influence, and cast their octave (not 
more) fairly in tune. But bells have been getting 
worse and worse; all bell connection with the Low 
Countries has been snapt for over a century and a 
half; and we have not now, as far as I know, an 
English founder who can cast two octaves in tune. 
That is why I said to the Dean and Chapter of 
St. Paul's —“ If you want your new bells in tune 
you must go to Belgium; " but they went not, and 
they have got them now out of tune to their heart's 

content—a terror to 
the citizens, and a 
curious commentary 
upon the self-re¬ 
liance of learned 
ecclesiastical bodies. 
They were like deaf- 
adders then, and 1 
dare say they feel 
sorry they are not 
deaf-adders now. 

This new peal 
in the metropolitan 
cathedral begins to 
go wrong at the 
seventh note; the 
bells of St. Saviour's, 
Southwark, at the 
octave; the Fulham 
bells, which are an 
admirable peal, at 
the ninth note ; 
Manchester Town 
Hall bells (very 
decent) are fairly 
right from a to a, 
but from c to c the 
upper c is sharp, and 
the octave is never 
perfectly recovered. 
Messrs. Gillett and Bland, perceiving this, have 
wisely, in arranging their airs, made use of the 
lower series of medium-sized bells which are best 
in tune; Taylor is best in his medium-sizes. I 
once said to Severin van Aerschodt —“ It is a 
very odd thing the English bells all go wrong at 
the seventh or eighth note, and we never get well 
under weigh with a second octave in tune." “ I 
don't wonder at it," he replied, “ for that is our 
difficulty; we can tune the first octave, but the 
second is difficult, and the third exasperating!" 
“ How long do you give to tune a bell?" I asked. 
“ About four days to each bell that requires it; and 
to get a carillon right, the upper with the lower hells, 
there is no rule or limit. This is why I cannot 
supply bells to order as quickly as I would." 

As regards our national English art of bell-ringing, 
it is well known that our peals of bells are swung 
right round, a tremendous blow being delivered each 
time. Before the time of Queen Elizabeth, only the 
half-wheel was used, but with the full wheel the bat¬ 
tering science made a giant stride, and in 1567, one 
Fabian Stedman invented a truly appalling system 
of notation, by which changes on a few bells might 
be rung almost for ever and ever. You start with 
three bells 1, 2, 3, and proceed 1, 3, 2; 2,1, 3; 3, 1, 2; 





3, 2, 1, and so forth. In this way it would take 91 
years to ring- out the changes on 12 bells at the rate 
of two strokes a second, while the full changes on 
24 hells would occupy one hundred and seventeen 
thousand billions of years. It is impossible not 
to admire the ingenuity of all this hunting up and 
down, the dodging and snapping, the plain hob and 
triple bob major, and all the rest of it; it is terrible 
skill and good exercise; it is thirsty work too for 
the snappers and triple bobbers; and on a summer 
evening a little of it a long way off may be not at 

all unpleasant to hear. But it is not music; it is 
at most a sort of exercise in notation; and, in 
fact—-the truth will out—the bell-ringer’s paradise 
is the musician’s inferno. The old sexton who is 
seen entering the “Old Church” door in Stanfield’s 
pleasant drawing is the sort of adjunct invariably 
found necessary to the comfort and efficiency of the 
stalwart men who will presently set a-going the 
octagonal tower above him. He looks after the beer, 
greases the wheels, and gets the local carpenter to 
wedge the bell-frame, which by-and-by is to shake 
the tower down. 

In Belgium night and day are set to music; every 
considerable town has its carillon of 20 to 40 bells, 
ranging from several tons to a few 
pounds. Antwerp boasts of Go bells, 
but they are not well in tune together, 
though many of the small ones by 
Hemony are beautiful. The tower of 
Antwerp is one of the most command¬ 
ing in the world; 126 steeples can 
be counted from its summit; by the 
aid of a telescope ships can be dis¬ 
tinguished far out at sea, and the 
captains declare they can trace its 
lofty spire at 150 miles’ distance. 
Bruges, with 40 bells, is the 
heaviest carillon; but Mechlin, 
with 44, is the best in tune. 
Ghent has 39. The new iron 
belfry has greatly impoverished 
the sound of the bells. Louvain 
has 40. Every ten minutes 
there streams from the Mechlin 
tower a little gush of harmony; at the 
half-hour a tune is played once, and at 
the hour two or three times over. This is 
delightful, simply because it is music and not 
noise. The ding-dong of one or two big dis¬ 
cordant bells may well ruin house property and 
destroy the tympanum; but chords and frag¬ 
ments of a full pianoforte score rendered on a selec¬ 
tion of 40 bells, some of them quite small, and a 
floating melody overhead like the sound of heavenly 
voices, hardly disturb the current of one’s thoughts. 
Nay, they often stimulate the emotions and mingle 
pleasantly with all sleeping and waking life. When 
one leaves Belgium time seems dead; we almost 
resent the silent lapse of hours, full, it may be, of 
varied thought and feeling, yet suddenly unmarked 
by any flow of aerial melody. 

“ J’ainie le carillon dans tes cites antiques, 

O vieux pays gardien de tes mceurs domestiques,” 

sings Hugo in the verses that, rising at middle night, 
at Mechlin in 1837, he wrote by moonlight on his 
window pane with a diamond. Even the careless and 



irregular sounding of the “Angclus” has a weird 
and poetical effect from those old towers. As it 
streams over adjacent orchards and pasture-lands, the 
peasant pauses—as in our frontispiece, the drawing 
for Millet's noble and affecting picture, painted in 
the solemn loneliness of the Plain of Chailly, beside 
the immemorial oaks and beeches of Fontainebleau— 
and reverently bends his head and mutters a prayer. 
He feels his work is over; and 

“ Be the day weary, be the day long-, 

At last it ringeth to Even Song.” 

It was Millet's to express, in terms at once pathe¬ 
tic and august, the very soul of this solemn and 
touching time. He was pre-eminently the painter 
of man in nature; his imagination, touched with an 
heroic melancholy and heightened with an heroic 
ambition, loved to busy itself with elemental qualities 
and primary truths; and to their adequate present¬ 
ment alone he bent his incomparable knowledge of 
nature and his unsurpassed technical skill. His 
“ Angelus" is not merely a picture of dying lights 
and growing darkness and labour at rest; it is a 
portraiture of the absolute sentiment of an act of 
worship—an embodiment of the tradition of a thou¬ 
sand Christian years. 

Let us ascend the noble tower of St. Rhombaud 
at Mechlin and see how the bells are played. The 
clock sets going a barrel studded with spikes 
which lift tongues attached to long wires, which in 
turn liberate hammers acting on the row of bells 
up aloft. At Mechlin the barrel weighs one and 
a quarter tons, and contains 16,200 holes, and the 
present tunes for the hour are produced by about 
2,900 nuts or spikes. The tunes are altered and 
the nuts re-arranged for new 
tunes once a year. That is 
how clock music is produced. 

But enter another chamber 
in the tower, and we have 
before us a rough key-hoard; 
the tail of the key pulls a 
wire as before, and the wire 
is connected with the bell- 
hammer ; but the directing or 
liberating force, instead of a 
peg in a revolving barrel, is the 
hand of a skilled musician. 

It is the key-board per¬ 
formance on the mighty rows 
of hells which has made the 
bell music of Belgium famous 
throughout the world. The 
old rough jutting pegs struck 
with the hand, and a row of 
pedals worked by the feet, are 
still used as in Dr. Burney's 

time, but the effects produced are simply prodigious. 
Perhaps I may be pardoned for here re-describing 
my last interview with M. Denyn, of Mechlin, the 
greatest living carilloner, who, on hearing of my 
arrival, kindly gave a special performance on the 
Mechlin bells in my honour. I stood first at a remote 
corner of the market-place, just at the spot where a 
dark figure is seen standing, at the angle of a block 
of houses in our engraving of St. Rhombaud’s Tower, 
and after a short running prelude from the top bells 
weighing only a few pounds to the bottom ones 
of several tons, M. Denyn settled to his work in a 
brisk gallop, admirably sustained at a good tearing 
pace without flagging for a single bar. Such an 




effort, involving the 
most violent muscular 
exercise, could not 
last long, as I quickly 
perceived when I en¬ 
tered the belfry and 
watched the player. 
He was bathed in 
sweat, and every 
muscle of his body 
seemed at full tension, 
as with both feet he 
grappled with the 
the old church. huge pedal bells, and 

(Drawn by Clarkson Stanfield.) manipulated With 

gloved hands and 
incredible rapidity bis two rows of key pegs. After 
a slight breathing pause, M. Denyn bade me mark 
the grand legato style most effective in such arias 
as Beethoven’s “ Adelaide ” and Bellini’s “ Casta 
Diva,” which he played off accurately, melody and 
accompaniment, as from a pianoforte score. Then 
he gave me an astonishing specimen of bravura 
playing, putting down the great nine-ton and six- 
ton bells for the melody with his feet, and carry¬ 
ing on a rattling accompaniment of demi-semi- 
quavers on the treble bells, and finally, after a few 
sweeping arpeggio passages, he broke into a proces¬ 
sional movement so stately that it reminded me of 
Chopin’s “Funeral March.” Just after this, when 
he was in the middle of a grand fantasia on the 
“ Dame Blanche,” the clock barrel began suddenly 
working at the hour with a pretty French tune, 

Comme on aime a vingt ans.” 

A lesser artist than Denyn would have been taken 
aback; but in his way Denyn is of the calibre 
of Liszt, who, on one occasion when he made 
a false note, surprised and bewildered his critics 
by the ingenuity with which he turned the false 

bar into something prodigiously daring and original. 
M. Den yn seized his opportunity, and waiting 
patiently until the barrel had done, plunged ra¬ 
pidly into an extempore continuation, which was 
so finely joined on to the mechanical tune that 
the people in the crowded market - place must 
have thought that the barrel had become suddenly 
inspired. Turning to me as he played, he bade 
me note tbe perfect control he had over the pianos 
and fortes, now lightly touching the bells, now 
giving them thundering strokes; and, as a personal 
compliment to bis English guest, he wound up with 
“ God save the Queen,” beautifully harmonised. 
I must say that I never, on piano or violin, heard 
more admirable and expressive phrasing, whilst the 
vigour and fire of the virtuoso reminded me of one 
of Rubinstein’s finest performances. 

In several new carillons now in England, Messrs. 
Gillett and Bland have substituted for tbe rude 
jutting pegs a delicate key-board like that of an 
organ, by which a lady’s finger can operate upon bells 
of any calibre. After each stroke the hammer is 
instantly lifted by machinery, and the only drawback 
is, that everything being mechanical, and the finger 
having only to liberate a hair trigger, no expression 
of piano or forte can be given, as with the rude 
Belgian peg, which, although it has to lift as well as 
liberate the hammer, yet admits of a gentle or a severe 
stroke corresponding toy) iano and forte. I need not 
say that the Belgian bells all hang in stationary 
rows. A great deal of nonsense has been talked, 
as nonsense is about everything, about the grandeur 
of ringing-peals : as if the full tune and tone 
of a bell could not be elicited by the descent of a 
sufficiently heavy hammer, instead of the hell being 
whirled round, with all its weight upon the clapper. 
This is no doubt the ^Ethiopian method of playing 
the tambourine : Sambo jumps up in the air, and 
brings the energy of his whole body down along 
with his fist, and the grandeur of the tambourine 
is thus elicited. This may do for the admirers of 
peal-ringing, but this is not music. Do you require 
Sims Reeves to bawl out each note at the top of 
his voice, or Joachim to play fortissimo throughout? 
Why, then, should you insist upon clanging these 
poor bells so unmercifully? No, peal-ringing is an 
exercise; but carillon playing is an art. A peal of 
bells is a noise; a carillon is music. As yet, how¬ 
ever, it has only found its executant; its creative 
artist has not turned up. It has its Liszt; for its 
Beethoven it is waiting still. After all, there is no 
reason why he should not one day appear, and none 
why sonatas for the carillon should not one day be 
as popular as sonatas for the pianc. Given a great 
musician who could play the carillon, such work 
would come of itself. H. R. IIaweis. 



W INTER is gone. We look around us with 
the air of men awakened from a long and 
heavy sleep. Light has come again to our eyes, 
and at first, strangely welcome though it be, we 
hardly comprehend it. A new influence has begun 
to live and move—something that stirs us with 
almost impei’ceptible and wholly undefinable emotions. 
And what is this new influence and wonder that we 
call Spring? How comes it, and whence? Whither 
does it tend? It is an uprising, a resurrection from 
death, or what seemed death, and a putting on of a 
new garment of life. And it is universal. Every 
one knows the signs of Spring, and man, as well as 
Nature, has felt them. We go out into the air, and 
know again what has long been a stranger to our 
experience—a certain balmy softness that thrills and 
penetrates us. There seems to be a quality in the 
very light of Spring different from that of even 
the softest Winter day. A dweller in the town sees 
the red chimney-tops stand out from the dark roofs 
with sharper contrast, and the smoke that comes from 
them is bluer than lately. Even in London a clear 
Spring day reveals colours that are not usually seen 
in Autumn and Winter. But to one who lives by the 
sea—what is this that comes before his eyes this 
morning? Not a grey sullen plain of cold repellent 
ocean; not an angry purple mass of tumbling waters; 
but a calm surface, blue, and full of brightness. 
Mr. Black himself could hardly describe it; but inde¬ 
scribable though its beauty may be, its influence is 
felt most surely. It fills us with gladness. Are you 
among the hills ? What are these lovely soft lights, 
and yet softer shadows, that hurry for ever under the 
cloud-flecked sky ? They seem new to us ; and new, 
indeed, they are, for winter has them not. They are 
swift and yet ceaseless, for as long as there is a cloud 
up above, and a sun behind that, they will come and 
go, “ like souls that balance joy and pain,” across the 
vallgys. If we descend into the level country we see 
colour varied, indeed, but as yet subdued, for the 
hedges, unless we look very closely, are still brown; 
the wheat is hardly—perhaps not at all—visible ; 
the grass is of a faint green; the woods are not yet 
fully dressed in their bridegroomds apparel. This is 
well, for after the darkness of Winter the eye must 
get used gradually to the increasing brightness of 
the year. Sight, however, reveals to us only a partial 
knowledge of the advent of Spring. The birds are, 
one and all, exulting. Even the grave rooks show a 
keen pleasure in the awakening year, and call to each 
other in cheery, clamorous tones; the noisy daws 

play and tumble in the air most youthfully; the pert 
starling is busier than ever and more of a chatter¬ 
box ; partridges are pairing, and call to each other 
from the hedge-bottoms; 
magpies flit here and there, 
and they, too, are heard as 
well as seen; the chaffinch 
is once more assuming the 
gay colours that during the 
Winter have been some¬ 
what subdued, and sits on 
a bough hard-by, attempt¬ 
ing as much of a song as 
Nature has given him voice 
for; wrens are numerous, 
and as noisy and audacious 
as ever; plovers which, 
more than most birds, 
give us an idea of 
aerial lightness, flit 
across the newly- 
turned purple earth, 
and their peculiar 
cry comes to us on 
the breeze like 
a “ wandering 
voice.” But 
the larks! the 
whole air is full 
of their song. 

Down it comes 
to our dull earth 
unstinted, spon¬ 
taneous, glad; 
full of free¬ 
dom, and full 





of love ; it is the lyric poetry of the sky. But let 
us step aside into some near plantation. Nothing 
is more tempting than a walk through a wood when 
the chills of early morning have vanished, and the 
kindly influence of the sun lets Nature have full 
play. Then, indeed, do the signs of Spring’s creative 
power become very manifest. Of the birds mention 
has been made; insect life begins to move, 

“ And the green lizard and the golden snake 
Like unimprisoned flames out of their - trance awake." 

If we listen, we can almost hear in the stillness of 
mid-noon the very grass growing; a green and tender 
light seems to hover round the trees; a new sheen 
has come on the silver of the birches; bluebells, 
primroses, violets, wild hyacinths, and a hundred 
varieties of flowers are about us. 

“ Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean, 

A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has hurst, 

As it has ever done, with change and motion, 

From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawned on chaos. In its light immersed, 

The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light; 

All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst, 

Diffuse themselves, and spend in love’s delight 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.” 

That is a splendid picture of Spring; and one 
may say that far more poetry has been written of 
this season than of any other. For not only through 
our senses do we know of the approach of Spring— 
by renewed energies, by unwonted activity, by a 
desire to be up and doing—but a certain quickening 
of our mental perceptions takes place. Analogies are 
found which no other period of the year would inspire 

us even to seek. If a man has an imagination at all, 
it is thoroughly roused by the physical emotion born 
of Spring, which communicates its message with 
magnetic quickness to the inner life of thought and 
feeling, and wakes that into action. The butterfly 
hovering over the fox-glove is an emblem of the 
young man whose fancy, we are told, “ lightly 
turns/'’ at this season, “to thoughts of love.” And 
in the way it Hits gaily from blossom to blossom it 
is also a type, perhaps, of the young man’s fickleness, 
as well as of the light-hearted season that has given 
it birth. The bee may symbolise not the gaiety of 
love, but the energy of work. It, too, goes from 
flower to flower, but with a purpose different from 
that of the butterfly. Both are born of the Spring, 
and she—like Wisdom—is justified of her children. 
Analogies, too, of other kinds may be found in 
Spring. Not only does it typify single passions or 
phases in the life of man,but it is clearly emblematic 
of youth as a whole. There is the fulness of energy 
that marks, or ought to mark, the life of a young 
man; there is the prolific abundance that, in one 
form or another, is the gift of most of us in youth; 
there is impetuosity, too, that, unless it be disciplined, 
will wreck everything; there is hope that, for a few 
short years, is well-nigh unquenchable; and change- 
ableness, and extravagance. Rightly viewed, there is 
nothing harsh or inharmonious in Spring. All these 



qualities that seem so separate 
are part of a life that has not 
yet found its true bent, but 
which will, by-and-by, settle 
down into the fulness and 
quiet strength of summer. 

Of course the great cen¬ 
tral idea of Spring is life. 
There is nothing so wonderful 
as the wonder of the burst 
of Spring. It is real, un¬ 
wearied life, and not merely 
existence. Ceaselessness also 
is one of its characteristics. 
There is no delay about it, 
and certainly no sloth. Every¬ 
thing touched by the spirit 
of it begins at once the 
march forward to the goal of 
perfectness which is reached 
by nearly all. That which 
dies has at least lived its 
life with energy. Apathy and 
dulness are absent, because 
everything is living for some¬ 
thing else, and helping for¬ 
ward by its life whatever is 
near it. And this impetuous¬ 
ness of life is not only 
visible in the trees, the grass, 
the flowers; it reaches the 
animate world as well. Every 
creature works, and finds a 
pleasure in working; and this 
love of work, and the joy it 
gives, are most infectious. 




Birds (to speak of them again) seem to vie with one 
another which shall first finish the nest; but their 
eager rivalry is free from any touch of envy. All 
this work is the first outcome of the energy born of 
overflowing life, and the next is happiness. The 
blackbird, with notes as of Pan’s own pipe, flutes 
it as if his function were to urge the whole world to 
love and live and enjoy. Larks infect one another 
with the spirit of gladness. The linnet, the thrush, the 
homely sparrow, the cuckoo, the tribe of immigrants 
that we welcome so gladly—all have a part in the 
“ untaught harmony of Spring,” and the chorus is 
indeed a happy one. The frolicsome lambs, the 
scampering hares, the darting rabbits, even the 
timorous field-mouse and the shy water-rat, are full 
of life and full of joy. And their joy is echoed 
in the hearts of a thousand poets. We all remem¬ 
ber, for instance, how the “ smale foules maken 
melody ” eternal in the fresh page of Chaucer, and 
how, four centuries after, when “ I and Eustace from 
the city went to see the Gardener’s Daughter,” the 
lark “could scarce get out his notes for joy,” and 
the nightingale “ sang loud as though he were the 
bird of day.” Charles of Orleans turns away, the 
sweet old gentle amorist that he is, from Amours 
and Lyesse, and Merencolie, and the other deities 
of his Olympus of abstractions, to remark—in one of 
the most graceful and most dainty of his dainty, 
graceful roundels—how 

“II n’ est ne beste ne oysseau 

Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crye: 

‘ Le Temps a laissie son manteau 
De vent, de froid, et de pluye,’ ” 

and clad himself in broideries, “ De soleil luisant, 
cler, et beau.” Victor Hugo, most superb of modern 
voices, even ceases from scourging the scoundrelisms 
of the Third Empire, to consider the abiding gaiety 
of his little friends, the birds, and the return of 
fair weather and Floreal the green month, “ Guand 
l’eau vif au soleil se change en pierreries.” A 
perfect anthology of Spring songs would be a very 
hymnal of happiness. 

Mention has been made of the changeableness of 
this season, and the artist has given us a charming 
sketch of the straits to which people may be put by 
the goddess of the Spring giving vent to her petulance. 
This fickleness of temper is, as every one knows, pro¬ 
verbial, and we laugh and are angry at it by turns. 

“ Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face.” 

So was it three hundred years ago when these lines 
were written; so will it be if any poet should write of 

Spring three hundred—or for the matter of that three 
thousand—years hence. But to come to the sketch— 
which of us has not witnessed scenes of this kind a 
score of times ? The household linen, cleansed to a 
point of immaculate purity, hangs in the warm sun¬ 
light and takes into itself the fragrance of the morn¬ 
ing air. Suddenly—one knows not how or whence— 
there is a “sound of an abundance of rain;” the tree- 
tops begin to bend in the growing gusts; the blue 
sky is covered with clouds ; a chilliness has come into 
the air. Anxious maids run quickly from the cottage 
to save their morning’s labour from ruin. Almost 
before they can take the pegs from the lines and the 
linen in-doors the storm is upon them. Hail and rain 
descend with a vehemence much like the passion of a 
child ; and in ten minutes the country-side is happy 
again, and the clothes may go back to the lines and 

Well, this changeableness of Spring is, after all, 
very charming, and it is what most of us have a 
fondness for. It is singularly emblematic of youth— 
which is changeable, one would hope, not so much 
from sheer fickleness as from exuberance of life 
(whence must come reaction) and inability as yet 
to set life in its true groove. Winter renews his 
attacks from time to time, though ever more and 
more feebly, against the growing warmth of the 
year, and causes this changeableness; and it is even 
so that coldness and apathy and gloom and “ the 
winter of our discontent” sometimes struggle to 
occupy the young heart, which, however, if it has 
gained a lesson from Spring, will before long win 
its summer of peace and warmth. 

The author of the philosophical essay on “ The 
Waning of the Year” in the November part of this 
magazine endeavoured to show that Autumn was 
less sad than Spring. It may, perhaps, be doubted 
whether he proved that somewhat difficult case. 
If the question were submitted to a ballot, probably 
the only people who would vote in favour of his pro¬ 
position would be the morbid and the “unco”’ senti¬ 
mental—those who took pleasure in an unhealthy 
view of things, and those who revelled in the sad¬ 
ness of decay. If there is gladness at all in the 
idea of Autumn, it is akin to that joy which cries 
“ let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” and 
to none other; for Autumn is a season of ripe¬ 
ness passing swiftly to death. And if Burns, whose 
exquisite lines the author quoted, found melancholy 
in Spring, it was because his own dark individu¬ 
ality was ever before him—his own sensitive con¬ 
science ever claiming to be heard; and these shut 
out the joy of Spring. What are the feelings 
with which this season inspires us ? Is not hope 
the foundation of them ? We began to lose hope 
with the first sight of the yellowing leaves, and 



as we went down the slope of Autumn into the 
darkness of Winter, we seemed to be entering the 
Valley of the Awful Shadow; but now the gates 
are passed, and we stand again in the light. And 
the image in which poets have ever embodied the 
idea of Spring is the most beautiful thing in the 
world—a young and perfect maiden. There is surely 
nothing sad in the contemplation or the idea of 
such beauty as that. If melancholy there be, it 

lines he ever produced were written during an early 

“ All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— 

The hees are stirring—birds are on the wing— 

And Winter, slumbering in the open air, 

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.” 

It was the eternal I that was for ever thrusting itself 
forward. The /, with its needs, its longings, its 


comes because the dark sorrows of the human heart 
are projected into the picture, because a selfish habit 
of introspection will not allow itself to be dissi¬ 
pated by the innocent and reviving influences of 
Spring. Eor joy, as well as life and love, is what 
she would give us. 

Or, again, to take the case of Coleridge—one of 
the greatest of melodists, one of the most imagi¬ 
native of poets, one of the most hopeless and 
futile of men. His work bore very plainly the 
impress of his own personality. Spring had no 
charming influence for him —- some of the saddest 

sorrows, its bitter knowledge of—in the ease of 
Coleridge—an ill-directed life, it might almost be 
said a non-direeted, a vague, an aimless life. Spring 
was, no doubt, a very sorrowful time to him :— 

“ With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll; 

And would you know the spells that drowse my soul ? 

Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 

And hope without an object cannot live.” 

“ Work without hope”—that was his case; and 
the truth of it was intensified into overwhelming 
regret by the contrast before his eyes, for the 
work of Spring is certainly not without hope. 



and so forth ; and the songs 
— that in “ The Winter’s 
Tale/’ for instance :— 

There seems little but glad¬ 
ness in Shakespeare’s pictures 
of Spring, for he (great artist 
that he was) kept self in the 
background out of sight, and 
held the mirror up to Nature. 
And what has Scott—whose 
knowledge of our hearts was 
second only to Shakespeare’s 
—to say on this subject? 

“ When daffodils begin to peer 
With heigh! the doxy over 
the dale, 

Why, then comes in the sweet 
o’ the year; 

For the red blood reigns in 
the winter’s pale.” 

“ The quiet lake, the balmy 

The hill, the stream, the 
tower, the tree—• 

Are they still such as once 
they were, 

Or is the dreary change 
in me ? ” 

i\ " 


But take the case of any great impersonal writer, 
Shakespeare, for instance. In his life, no doubt, there 
were places as black and sad as most men could show 
in theirs. Yet he never thrust them into the joyous 
pictures he drew of Spring. The life and beauty of 
the season, the fact that it is for ever giving and 
spending, never keeping back, showed him that it 
is a time of gladness. All his allusions to Spring 
are happy ones : “ the lovely April of her prime ; ” 
“ three beauteous Springs; ” 

“ When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim 
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything; ” 

No need to answer that 
question, or to say that 
for one line of poetry 
that shows Spring as 
a melancholy time, a 
hundred might easily 
be quoted to prove it is a season of gladness. For 
it is the youth of the year, and, like the youth of 
man, it is a season of pi’omise. Future fulness 
of life is hidden in the bud, and we get the first 
glimpse of its coming perfection in the blossom. 
We know that but a tithe of these apple-blossoms 
will come to maturity as fruit, just as only a part of 
the promise of our youth is fulfilled. And in this 
prodigality of Spring some may, perhaps, see one 
sad touch, and be led to ask the question that is 
doubtless tinged with a little melancholy when no 
satisfactory answer can be given, “ What is the 
use?” But if there is not quite a fulness of joy 
in the contemplation of this aspect of the season, 
such ought only to heighten the gladness of the 
rest. For so long as we keep within ourselves the 
consciousness of “one spark that will not be trampled 
out”—the spark of immortality—so long the extra¬ 
ordinary creative power of Spring must seem to us, 
in its yearly renewal, a confirmation and an earnest 
of our own imperishableness. The music of the 
new-born life of Spring will find an echo in our 
hearts. The central ideas of Spring—life, love, 



joy—will thrill with magnetic influence the fibres 
of our being, and, in a sense, make poets of us all. 
Our intellects will be stimulated, our hearts touched, 
our wills strengthened to do good. The contem¬ 
plation of so much life and beauty, such mingled 
tenderness and strength, will assuredly not fail 
to fill us with gladness. We shall look with wide 

enraptured eyes on the “ wonder and bloom of the 
world,” and be ready to say with the old Hebrew 
singer, “ For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over 
and gone; the flowers appear on the earth ; the time 
of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of 
the turtle is heard in our land. . . . Arise, my love, 
my fair one, and come away.” If. E. Ward. 


first sight the title-page of 
this handsome book is mis¬ 
leading. It is not, properly 
speaking, a new edition at 
all, but simply a reprint of 
the second edition which was 
issued by Mr. Bohn in 1861, 
when the first edition had 
become both scarce and com¬ 
mercially valuable. The hook 
was originally published in 
1838, and up to that period it is without doubt the 
most complete and exhaustive work on the subject. 
Mr. Bobir’s additional chapter, which purposes to 
bring it up twenty-three years later, is practically 
of very little use. The cuts are interesting, if not 
selected with marvellous intelligence; but the letter- 
press is perfunctory and superficial, affording but 
little elucidation to the public, and little assistance 
to the student. The illustrations being good, how¬ 
ever, and representative, we can forgive the rest, 
and pass it by. 

But though it is thus not as full as it might 
be, this reprint is of more than passing interest 
just now. For wood-engraving has of late been 
a subject of wide if not always intelligent discus¬ 
sion. A popular weekly print, by a mysterious and 
interesting process, of a sudden became an oracle; 
and the whole daily pi’ess began to discuss wood¬ 
engraving with dramatic energy. The American 
newspapers and magazines took up the subject with 
great spirit, and for some time a desperate war was 
waged between engravers and their critics, that ap¬ 
pears so far to have resulted in the usual way: 
the critics are more than ever convinced that they 
are perfectly right, and that wood-engravers know 
nothing about it. So that a really learned and 
authoritative work is particularly welcome; if only 

* “A Treatise on Wood-Engraving : Historical and Practical.” 
By William Andrew Chatto. With upwards of four hundred 
illustrations engraved on wood by John Jackson. A new edi¬ 
tion, with an additional chapter by Henry G. Bohn. (Chatto 
and Windus.) 28s. 


{Diction and Engraved by W. Harvey.) 

because it helps us to get some sort of clear calm 
insight into the disputed question, and enables us to 
form just opinions founded upon real knowledge and 
guided by undeniable experience. 

When this treatise was first published there 
was a quarrel between the authors and the pub¬ 
lisher—Charles Knight—that resulted in one of 
the curiosities of modern literature, the famous 
“ Third Preface ” by Chatto. There were two pre¬ 
faces to the book, written respectively by each of 
the authors, but certain passages in that by Chatto 
were, for some reason not evident to the general 
public, suppressed : the result being that a wholly 
misleading impression was conveyed as to the actual 

(Draivn by TV. Harvey; Engraved by John Thompson .) ? 

share that Chatto had in the prepara- t*, 
;ion of the work. The “Third Pre¬ 
face ” was published separately in the form 
if a letter to the author’s friend, Stephen 
3 liver. I have read it, and can say that 



it is as stinging as it is convincing; and that 
it leaves no room for doubt that the idea of the 
work, and the chief labour of it, were Chatto’s own. 
It need not necessarily be inferred from this that 
any credit properly belong¬ 
ing to Jackson is withheld. 

It is difficult now to dis¬ 
cover how much he really 
did. He was paymaster and 
proprietor, in which capaci¬ 
ties he seems to have acted 
with somewhat high-handed 
severity, even going so 
far as deliberately to omit 
Chatto’s name from the 
title-page — an omission 
afterwards corrected by 
Bohn in the second edition. 

Without going: farther into 
an unpleasant controversy, 
it must suffice to say that 
nearly all the praise and honour the book so tho¬ 
roughly deserves must be awarded to Chatto, who 
was an authority on the subject, and whose critical 
insight, erudition, and scholarly grasp inevitably 
give it a value that but for him it could never have 

In reading Chatto’s treatise, indeed, one cannot 
help being struck with the immense pains taken to 
make it thorough. In a subject such as this, which 
deals unavoidably with other and kindred arts, it 
is natural to find various 
side issues continually ap¬ 
pearing during the course 
of historical investigation. 

Yet these are always pur¬ 
sued and followed up, as 
it were, to the bitter end. 

Thus, we have not only a 
history of wood-engraving, 
which virtually begins 
about 14.23, but also an 
elaborate and learned ac¬ 
count of the rise and pro¬ 
gress of engraving before 
that time. Again, not only 
have we a most exhaus¬ 
tive and valuable chapter— 
which, by the way, is a little volume in itself—on 
the practical part of the subject, full of guidance 
and instruction, copiously and practically illustrated, 
but also a history of the rise and progress of printing 
in the Middle Ages. Every authority has been con¬ 
sulted ; and everything likely to prove of the slightest 
value, as helping to the formation of opinion, as guiding 
criticism, or as aiding investigation, has been incor¬ 

porated; while the errors of former writers, such as 
Otway and Papillon, have been corrected, and their 
fallacies—and perhaps, too, their frauds—clearly and 
conclusively exposed. This is no light labour in the 

case of wood-engraving, 
which, like printing, is a 
subject teeming with myths 
and uncertainties; and it is 
not too much to say that 
Chatto has earned the 
lasting gratitude of the 
student and the critical 

There is a completeness 
about the historic portion— 
so far as it goes at least— 
that is almost German in 
its thoroughness. Though 
the oldest wood-cut at pre¬ 
sent known to exist was 
probably produced about 
1423, Chatto reverts almost to pre-historic times. 
II is book opens with a learned disquisition on the 
archaeology of engraving. For engraving is one of 
the oldest of the arts. It was practised in ancient 
Egypt. The bricks of Babylon were impressed with 
stamps with raised characters, and in the silent tombs 
of Thebes the stamps themselves—made of wood, too 
-—-have been discovered. Some of them may be seen 
any day at the British Museum, together with simi¬ 
larly marked lamps, and earthen tiles, and other domestic 

utensils, found on the site 
of old Rome. Then there 
were the ancient brands— 
cauteria or stigmata — for 
marking criminals and 
slaves : a practice in great 
force, by the way, in the 
Middle Ages, and, not so 
very long since, in merry 
England itself. Engraving, 
in some rough and primitive 
fashion or another, seems 
indeed to have been in con¬ 
stant use in Europe, from 
times antecedent to the 
birth of Christ until the 
early part of the fifteenth 
century, when it was first applied to printing pur¬ 
poses, and when the art, as we know it now, may 
be said to have developed into actuality. I shall 
not deal here, however, with the wood-engravings 
of mediaeval times; Mr. Conway has already treated 
that part of the subject in his articles on the 
“ Dutch Printers and Wood-cutters . >} Passing ra¬ 

pidly by the curiously romantic story of the beautiful 

“ .ESOP.” 



and talented Italian boy and girl twins, the Cunios, 
said by the imaginative Papillon to have produced 
some wonderful wood-engravings which nobody ever 
saw and nobody now believes ever existed ; lingering 
for a moment to wonder at the combination of crude 
skill and noble feeling in the “ St. Christopher,” and 
at the singular loveliness and grace of the “Annuncia¬ 
tion of the Virgin/’ the two earliest wood-cuts known, 
and both from block-books; skipping for the moment 
the learned account of the rise and progress of printing 
and typography, and the interesting history of wood¬ 
engraving in connection with the press ; and noting 
the marvellous improvement that took place under 
the master-auspices of Diirei’, Holbein, Burgkmair, 
and other German draughtsmen and wood-cutters; 
we arrive, towards the end of the sixteenth century, 
at a significant period 
in the history of the 
art. At this time the 
wood-cutters of Italy 
and France had attained 
great perfection of neat¬ 
ness and delicacy. But 
they were not content 
to work on in the true 
art-spirit. The religious 
fervour of medieval 
times was spending its 
force. The key to all 
good wood-engraving— 
a true knowledge of the 
■ power of well-contrasted 
black and white—was 
lost. Artistic truth and 
natural beauty gave place to affectation, emptiness, and 
vanity. Force was exchanged for feebleness; honesty, 
however crude, for sham, however subtle ; art, at once 
the noblest and simplest, for imitation almost as 
flaccid and ineffective and laborious as it is possible 
for imitation to be. And why ? Because the engravers 
of those days tried to reproduce on wood the effects 
and processes that belong to copper. They ignored 
the special capacities of their own medium, and for 
true artistic freedom substituted the slavery of a 
meaningless mechanical precision. From that moment 
wood-engraving steadily declined, and finally, in the 
eighteenth century, sank into absolute insignificance. 

The art, however, never really died out, as some 
writers have asserted. A complete succession of en¬ 
gravers can be traced, both in France and England, 
from 1700 to the days of Bewick, whose first wood- 
cut appeared about the year 1768. That good some¬ 
times results from evil was perhaps never more aptly 
shown than in the gradual development of the highest 
and most artistic kind of wood-engraving from the 
failui’es and follies of the workers of the seventeenth 

century. They practically ruined their craft by 
striving to imitate engravings on copper. Yet it 
was from such imitations that Bewick appears to 
have obtained the hint which he afterwards adopted 
to such wonderful advantage alike of himself and 
of English art. His most noteworthy predecessor in 
England was Edward Kirkall, who, as far as can be 
traced, seems to have been born at Sheffield in 1695, 
or thereabouts. He engraved both on copper and on 
wood; and his earliest known work is, according to 
Chatto, a series of upwards of sixty wood-cuts in an 
edition of Howel’s “Medulla Historic Anglicanse,” 
printed in London, 1712. The curious thing about 
these blocks is that they seem to have been en¬ 
graved in the manner of copper-plates; the lines, 
that is, which should have been cut in relief, are cut 

intaglio, and thus appear 
white where they ought 
to appear black. But 
the work of chief in¬ 
terest executed by Kirk- 
all is the series of cuts 
illustrating Croxall’s 
edition of “ FEsop’s 
Fables,” first published 
in 1722. Many of these 
are merely reversed 
copies of engravings on 
copper by S. Le Clerc, 
illustrating a French 
edition of the Fables 
published about 1694. 
By the courtesy of the 
publishers, we are en¬ 
abled to give upon the opposite page a plate of 
Le Clerc, with KirkalFs reversed copy of it, and 
here is Bewick's masterly treatment of the same 
subject. There is not very much to commend in 
Le Clerks work; there is still less that can please 
modern taste in the somewhat feeble copy by 
Kirkall. But there is an unmistakable beauty in 
the cut by Bewick that will live, and charm, for 
all time. It reveals a delicacy of touch, a world of 
poetry, truth, and infinite meaning that raise him 
high above his fellows. The effect is marvellously 
strengthened (mark the masterly use of his know¬ 
ledge of the power of pure black, peculiar to wood¬ 
engraving), the foliage lives, the stones are real 
stones, built up by human hands, and worn by time 
and damp and storm; all is variety and veracity, and 
throughout the picture dwell the lights and shadows, 
the distances and delicate atmosphere of Nature. 
Even in our cut, which is but a copy of the original, 
we can perceive the fashioning of a master’s hand : 
the treatment is simply broad; the result, at once 
strong and delicately subtle. 



It is, indeed, upon the principles and practice of 
Thomas Bewick that, modern tine-art wood-engraving 


(By Robert Bvanston.) 

is entirely based. Fine-art wood-engraving : I use 
the phrase advisedly, because the mass of wood- 
engraving we see about us just now is not fine art 
at all, but the reverse. A striking and unvarying 
characteristic of all that Bewick did, and of all 
the best work of the men who followed him, is that 
every single line or touch of the graver has its own 
special meaning and its own peculiar beauty. But 
the thing that above all others raises wood-engraving 
into a distinct and thoroughly individual art is the 
power it gives of placing a pure white on a pure 
black. This is impossible with copper or with steel. 
Bewick finally grasped this peculiarity and turned it 
to account; and if he 
had, as seems more than 
likely, been led to his 
discovery by the blind 
and unintelligent imi¬ 
tation of copper-plates 
that before bis time 
had characterised wood¬ 
engraving in Europe, to 
him must be awarded 
all the praise. But for 
his surpassing genius we 
might even now be a 
long way oft the goal he 
reached a century ago. 

There was virtually 
no wood-engraving in 
the true sense before 
Bewick’s time. Broadly 
speaking, the kind of 
thing that preceded him 
was wood-cutting; and 
the distinction is one 

with a difference. We often see the two methods 
combined now-a-days, and with good effect; but 
the first kind of wood-engraving was a very simple 
and mechanical process, performed mostly with knives 
and gouges. The artistic merits of the engraving 
depended not upon the engravers, but upon the 
designers, whom we know to have been generally 
accomplished draughtsmen. The design was drawn 
on the wood with a point— i.e., with a chalk or 
pen, or, in large subjects, with a small brush. 
The darker the tone required, the thicker and the 
closer the lines, until by-and-by, as the art pro¬ 
gressed, all the varied cross-hatchings of the finest 
pen-and-ink work were introduced. The work of 
the engraver obviously consisted in merely removing 
the blank spaces of wood in and around the design, 
in such a way as to leave it standing in relief- 
in short, a perfect fac-simile in wood of the original 
drawing. All such work in which the lines have 
been previously drawn with a pencil or pen is now 
called technically by engravers fac-simile. This style 
is to be studied any day in Punch, the engravings 
of the pictures by Messrs. Keene, Du Maurier, and 
Linley Sambourne being first-rate examples of it. 
It is clear, then, that such wood-cutting as this, if 
often necessitating the greatest care and delicacy, 
and sometimes true artistic feeling, is after all me¬ 
chanical, and merely reproductive. 

But the style inaugurated by Bewick is not 
mechanical, though in a sense it is reproductive. 
It is perfectly free and individual : so much so, 
indeed, that no two men who have adopted it 
engrave in just the same way or with just the same 



■awn and Engraved by Hugh Hughes.) 



feeling and expression. As an illustration of this, 
take, for instance, our initial letter, " Una and the 
Lion,” drawn and 
engraved by Wil¬ 
liam Harvey, and 
the engraving on 
the same page 
of " Milton Dic¬ 
tating f Paradise 
Lost/ ” drawn by 
William Harvey 
and engraved by 
John Thompson, 
perhaps the two 
ablest of Bewick’s 
pupils. There is, 
doubtless, in tlie 
initial something 
of Bewick’s feel¬ 
ing and manner, 
which were only 
natural. But the 
character of Harvey is distinguishable in the en¬ 
graving as well as in the draughtsmanship, which 
for the moment must be put out of mind. In 
the design engraved by Thompson, however, there 
is a distinct individuality that the veriest tyro can 
scarcely fail to observe. Again, the "Industry and 
Sloth” of Robert Branston marks a separate style 
and personality quite apart from anything that 
Bewick did. Branston was in some respects superior 
to Bewick; but he 
uniformly failed 
in those subjects 
in which Bewick 
is pre-eminent to 
this day — viz., 
quadrupeds, birds, 
and landscapes. 

His trees and 
natural scenery, 
though merito¬ 
rious, are very far 
below the stan¬ 
dard , fixed by 
Bewick’s work. 

Hugh Hughes, a 
successor of Be¬ 
wick and Brans¬ 
ton, was a man 
of original talent, 
some of his work evincing wonderful appreciation 
of nature. Like Bewick and Branston, he drew his 
own subjects, one of which, " Pwll Caradoc,” from 
his "Beauties of Cambria,” published in 1823, we 
give. It displays a knowledge of natural form and 

a masterly handling of the tool hardly second to 
Bewick’s, whilst it is full of delicately varied 

tones, light and 
shade, and natural 
spirit. Note, too, 
the skilful and 
artistic rendering 
of the foam and 
spray from the 
falling water, and 
the charmingly 
delicate treat¬ 
ment of the stems 
and branches of 
the trees. Our 
other examples, 
taken from Mar¬ 
tin and Westall’s 
pictorial illustra¬ 
tions of the Bible 
(1833), are also 
noteworthy in this 
respect. That by F. W. Branston—a brother of Robert 
—is individual and striking, if wanting somewhat 
in variety, whilst that by William Henry Powis is 
to this day a masterpiece of fine execution and exqui¬ 
site meaning. Not a line but has its significance, 
its beauty, and its power. Every detail—whether 
of swirling wave or falling rain; of earthquake 
and rending mountain; of mighty rolling cloud and 
solemn storm, with sad, awful sunlight struggling 

through; of help¬ 
less beasts tamed 
into terrible fear, 
and of shrieking 
men and women 
and children— 

every marvel of 
earth or sea or 
sky is rendered 
or suggested with 
such truth and 
simplicity, deli¬ 
cacy and power, 
and such poetic 
and imaginative 
feeling as have 
rarely been dis¬ 
played on so 
small a block. 
Much, of course, 
is due to the artist, John Martin; but what an en¬ 
graver must he not have been who so interpreted a 
draughtsman’s work! It may be taken as one of our 
standards by which to judge modern wood-engraving, 
English or otherwise. 


(Dranm by John Martin; Engraved by F. W. Branston.) 


{Drawn by John Martin; Engraved by W. U. Powis.) 

2 42 


It is clear that wood-engraving, as perfected by 
Bewick and his successors, is a line art: that is, 
it is a distinct means not only of reproducing 
with certain disadvantages the work of other arts, 
such as painting and etching, but also of directly 
interpreting Nature herself. The fac-simile style, 
as we have seen, is for the most part purely mechani¬ 
cal and impossible of execution without the aid of a 
practised draughtsman, upon whose artistic sensibility 
and skill the result must chiefly depend. But the 
tint style, which is the technical term for Bewick’s 
method, is not dependent upon the draughtsman in at 
all the same degree. In the former nearly everything 
depends on the draughtsman, and only a little upon 
the engraver; in the latter only a little depends on the 
draughtsman, and nearly everything on the engraver. 
The fac-simile cutter has a perfect guide in the 
artist’s work; but the tint engraver finds his chief 
guide in his own knowledge of nature in every aspect 
and every department. And while the one has every 
line ready to his hand, the other has nothing but a 
series of tones varying from black to white, which he 
has to interpret and translate into a series of lines of 
his own invention—a new set of lines, with fresh 
direction and varying strength and depth, yet always 
beautiful, always harmonious, and never false—for 
every object represented. The difference between the 
two styles— i.e., between wood-cutting and wood¬ 
engraving—is further emphasised by this curious 
law: the effects of fac-simile are produced by 
strengthening; the blacks; the effects of tint engraving 1 
by strengthening the whites. In the one process the 
more lines there are the darker the tone; in the 
other the more lines there are the lighter the tone. 
The fac-simile lines are in relief; the tint lines are 

The theory of Bewick’s practice is that the un¬ 
worked block, if inked, presents merely a black sur¬ 
face; and an impression taken from it will give a 
perfect representation of the block. Now, if the 
block is engraved upon, it follows that whatever is 
cut upon it will appear white on a black ground, 
which is exactly the reverse of a fac-simile block, 

an impression from which shows the design in black 
lines on the white ground of the paper. Turn back 
for an instant to that copy of Bewick’s “Fox and the 
Goat,” and compare it with any of Du Maurier’s 
designs in Punch. The difference between the two 
styles is apparent at once. The whole effect of 
the Bewick is obtained by engraving white lines 
upon the solid black surface of the block, cutting 
the wood wholly away where pure white spaces are 
required by the design, and leaving it untouched 
where the deepest shadow is to come. In fact, the 
system is fairly illustrated in the engraving of the 
pit, in which from solid black a tone is gradually 
evolved by thin, delicate, white lines, gradually in¬ 
creasing in strength and vigour and in proximity to 
each other, until at last a pure white is obtained. 
Then, again, look at the way in which the leaves, 
and the trunk and stems of the tree behind the 
masonry to the left, are touched in and suggested 
by white lines and touches upon the black ground. 
Every one of these touches and lines has to be in¬ 
vented and fashioned by the engraver, who virtually 
draws each one as he cuts it—surely a feat of no 
mean skill ! I cannot do better here than quote 
a few lines from an article by Mr. W. J. Linton, 
one of the best and most imaginative wood-engravers 
that ever lived. The engraver, he says, “ has to 
draw an outline which (be pleased to observe this, 
though the remark be not new) is not in the picture. 
He has to invent, to design, the lines, the regulated 
strength and order of which shall not only most 
faithfully but also most beautifully round the forms, 
and place at proper distance and in perspective the 
hollows of face and figure. There is not a fold of 
drapery that can take its right position and proper 
value in the engraving without his most careful 
judgment and some degree of designing taste.” 
Mr. Linton here, of course, is speaking of figure 
subjects; but his remarks apply with equal force 
and truth to any class of subject; and an engraving 
is artistically valuable in proportion to the degree of 
skill and feeling with which these subtle qualities 
are introduced. Harry V. Barxett. 



I T is undeniable that of late years there has 
been a great improvement in all that con¬ 
cerns the choice and arrangement of colour, whether 
in house decoration or costume. The advauce in 
this latter direction has, indeed, been altogether re¬ 
markable ; and whereas our streets were wont to be 
unenlivened by the slightest streak of brightness in 

women’s dress, while our evening assemblies blazed 
with the rankest hues, tones at once stronger and 
softer have taken the place of the hideous blues 
and mauves and magentas of yore. A harmonious 
blending of tints, as well as a choice of pure colours, 
has become the “ fashion ” in costume. But in 
respect of form improvement is not so evident. It 



is on the score of form 
in dress that I wish to 
suggest improvement, 
bringing to notice some 
possible hints for simpler 
and more useful kinds of 
apparel from obsolete and 
present national costumes. 

All dress must needs 
begin in applicability. It 
was invented for use, 
and not for ornament; 
and it was only out of 
the exaggeration of its 
particular features that it 
ever became what is fanci¬ 
fully called “ costume/'’ 
and thence, escaping from 
all reasonable control, 
often descended to ab¬ 
surdity. Thus the Elizabe¬ 
than ruff—in its original 
proportions, a becoming 
frame to the head and 
face—ended as a stiff and 
starched monstrosity de¬ 
trimental alike to comfort 
and beauty. The stay and 
long bodice, possibly in¬ 
vented as a support to 
weak persons, and perhaps in their first stages even 
becoming to corpulent figures, degenerated into bard, 
whalebone stomachers unsuitable to the soft outlines 
of woman, and led to the very harmful and ugly prac¬ 
tice of tight-lacing which has survived to our own 
age. Even the pointed shoe, laughable at last in its 
affectation, may have originated in a plausible desire 
to flatter the size and shape of the foot, though in¬ 
deed it can never have been so pretty and comfortable 
a make as the full cloth or velvet shoe toed with 
leather. Many illustrations might be quoted of the 
danger of studying the becoming in dress before the 
reasonable; and, if this be allowed, it follows that 
all good modes must be developments of the dress 
of those who have to subordinate appearance to 
practice. The beauty of any garment consists in its 
fitness for the office assigned to it; and though the 
varieties of costume must, of course, be moulded to the 
separate exigencies of different stations and methods 
of life, as well as to individual peculiarities of face 
and figure, I cannot but think that women in the 
present age would do well to discard the present 
style of “ making,” which is complex in itself and 
overloaded with ornament, and re-model dress on the 
principles of those to whom the first and greatest 
consideration was convenient simplicity. 

Trimming for trimming’s sake is a fault which 
cannot be too carefully avoided. The embroidering 
of a border—provided the colours and design be 
well chosen—or even the sewing on of braids in 
the form of a border, on the hem of petticoats, 
skirts, or jackets, is a quite admissible, because a 
reasonable, form of decoration; so is a border of 
fur, or a hanging frill of lace or of fringe ; but the 
unconsidered use of these things in inappropriate 
positions is a flagrant error. Lace, instead of being 
used at the edge, or apparent edge, of a garment, is 
too often sewn tight upon its surface, to “ show the 
pattern /’ whereas all such trimmings, being pre¬ 
sumably the working or fraying of the border of the 
stuff, must necessarily be placed at its limit. Thus, 
too, insertions are applied upon a material instead 
of being sewn in between its edges; and frills 
are placed anywhere but as a pendent edging, 
their only legitimate use. Nor in adopting sug¬ 
gestions from the rich costumes of past days are 
dressmakers wont to be a whit more reasonable. 
For instance, slashed sleeves and bodices have been 
in vogue among us lately; and it may sometimes 
have been noticed that the “ slash,” instead of being 
a material, presumably that of an undergarment, 
p ul led through holes cut in the top wear, has been 
a piece of stuff palpably sewn on outside the dress 
or sleeve, in the guise of a puff. So, again, with 
velvet collars and cuffs put on to trim a stuff dress; 
they should suggest an underdress turning back at 
the throat and wrists, but they are often separate, 
and removed from the ederes. thus effectuallv dis¬ 
pelling the illusion. 

The system of re- 
vers, of fancy waist¬ 
coats, of varied and 
reversible frills of 
two colours, should 
only be applied with 
the utmost care 
and discretion. The 
unfortunate wearer 
of these marvels of 
concoction would 
often appear, if the 
raison d’etre of her 
costume were care¬ 
fully sifted, to be 
carrying three or 
four robes, one above 
the other. 

The most suc¬ 
cessful dresses are 
generally the sim¬ 
plest, for elaborate ax axt-werp lady. 

fashions cannot be C From PlanchCs “History of Costume.") 



(From PhmcMs “ History of Costume.") 


well worn without care¬ 
ful study; and we may 
be sure that our safest 
patterns will be found in 
the costumes of women 
whose daily occupations 
necessitate the ease and 
freedom of the limbs and 
body—that is to say, in 
the dress of peasants and 
artisans in all ages, and 
in that of women in the 
days and in the coun¬ 
tries where the mistress 
was wont herself to per¬ 
form household duties. 
First and foremost in the 
latter class stands the 
a woman of the abruzzi. most uniformly graceful 

of all shapes in robes : 
the mediaeval dress, fitting tightly but easily over 
the bust and thighs, and then falling in folds to 
the feet. This make is very similar to the “ Prin¬ 
cess ” robe of recent times, which one is sorry to 
find less popular than a few years ago. It is the 
most graceful of modern dresses, whether made 
to fasten up the front or at the back. The older 
variation is rather fuller in the skirt, almost sug¬ 
gesting a separate skirt gathered on to a bodice 
below the hips, although in reality the dress is all 
cut in one piece, like its modern imitation. Massive 
silver or gilt girdles were often worn around the hips 
with it, and through these the skirt was pulled, so 
as to disengage it from the feet in walking. It 
was thus equally convenient in the house and out 
of it; within doors it draped and gave warmth to 
the lower limbs, without being 
long enough to impede move¬ 
ment; and in the street, by 
means of the girdle, it was 
kept from out the mire. Gene¬ 
rally made to fasten behind, 
it was oftenest fitted in front 
by means of three long and 
continuous seams, one down 
the centre, and one over each 
breast, reaching from the 
shoulder. A satisfactory 
modern variation has been 
invented, to fasten on the 
shoulders and under the arms, 
thus avoiding the unseemli¬ 
ness of fastenings down the 
back or front, and doing much 
to ensure smoothness of fit. 

This mode, so long as it be 

not pinched at 
the waist, is 
by far most 
universally be¬ 
coming and 
practical of all. 

The dresses of 
the thirteenth 
and fourteenth 
centuries were 
often made low 
and unadorned 
at the throat, 
which would 
not suit our 
climate. The 
fashion of the 
“ Marguerite ” 
dress resembles 
that of the 
“Princess;” but it was cut low about the throat, 
and the sleeve of it was more fantastic, being some¬ 
times puffed and laced. The sleeve of the mediaeval 
“ Princess ” was usually a hanging sleeve, having 
another tight-fitting sleeve underneath, which ended 
in a concave cuff, like the petal of a flower, or in 
a narrow lace ruffling at the wrist. If worn with¬ 
out a hanging sleeve above, the fashion may be 
pleasantly varied by the “ leg of mutton ” sleeve of 
our grandmothers : cut in one piece with one seam, 
and without slashing, but so sloped as to form a 
puff at the top, thus giving additional breadth to 
narrow or sloping shoulders, and space for the free 
movement of the arm. 

The “ Princess ” or “ Marguerite ” robes, as well 
as some of the dresses of the French Republic and 
First Empire, avoid the im¬ 
mense difficulty of separate 
skirts and bodices, a fashion 
most detrimental to appear¬ 
ance and comfort. The dresses 
of the beginning of the cen¬ 
tury erred, at the same time, 
on the side of exaggeration 
quite as much as, and perhaps 
more than, any dresses have 
done before or after them, 
and deformed the figure by 
an absurd shortness of waist, 
as it had been deformed in 
the time of Elizabeth by 
stiffness and length of waist. 
Shortness of waist is always 
apt to flatter a thin or old 
figure, and make it appear 
younger and plumper; but a 





short-waisted dress is most graceful made in one length 
and full in front. To my mind it can be further im¬ 
proved by being cut Princess-wise behind, and with a 
broad waistband starting from beneath the arms to 
confine the fulness of the front. This avoids an unbe¬ 
coming line traversing the middle of the back. The 
“ Empire ” dresses were worn with a sash all round 
the waist: sometimes broad, made of muslin or stuff 
to match the dress, and tied behind; sometimes of 
narrow ribbon, tied either behind or in front, with 
long ends. Walking dresses at the end of the cen¬ 
tury were usually made with round skirts, sewn on 
in gathers all around the tight-fitting, short-waisted 
bodice ; sometimes the bodice had tabs all round, 
or a full box-pleated swallow-tail behind, and broad 
turn-back collars one above the other on the shoul¬ 
ders. Or, again, women wore very ample and pigeon- 
breasted kerchiefs, crossed over the bosom and tucked 
in at the waist. In a modified form, these fashions 
of the severer time of the French Directory may sug¬ 
gest most trim and dainty walking costumes for our 
damp climate, where dapper out-door dress is so im¬ 
portant. They are prone, however, to slip now and 
then into the defect of “ mannishness/’’ although they 
avoid the worst feature of present female costume— 
the fashion of long bodices made separate from the 
skirt. This fashion is both highly injurious—it 
throws the whole weight of the skirts on to the 

weakest portion of 
the body—and ex¬ 
ceedingly unbecom¬ 
ing, inasmuch as it 
divides the figure 
with a cross-line be¬ 
low the hips, which 
detracts from the 
wearer’s appearance 
of height and gives 
her somewhat the 
look of a turnspit- 
dog—all back and 
no legs. This bad 
effect of the long- 
waisted bodice is, 
of course, more ap¬ 
parent when skirts 
are short, and it is 
for this reason that 
I would draw par¬ 
ticular attention to 
the class of dress. 
Even where a good 
notion of a simple 
costume is con- 
a dutch fishwife. (1793.) sidei’ed, the modern 

(From PlancM's “ History of Costume.") dressmaker Spoils it 

by her foolish fear—I can see no other reason for 
the invariable separation of skirt and bodice—of 
thickening her customer’s waist. 

For pretty and practical short walking-dresses 
the costumes of country people might often be con¬ 
sidered with advantage. All peasant women—but 
perhaps most notably the Swiss and Italian con- 
tadine, who require the greatest ease of dress for 
their labours in the fields—get rid of belts and gall¬ 
ing strings l’ound the waist by wearing their skirts 
firmly stitched to the bustino, a sleeveless bodice with 
shoulder-straps. By this means they carry the weight 
of their skirts from the shoulders, and also secure 
perfect play to the arms, because the sleeves—those 
of the shirt — are independent of the bodice of 
the dress, and can be cut with a wider scoop in the 
arm-hole. Tak